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I 





THREE OF US 


V 


Barney • Cossack • Rex 



MRS. IZORA C. CHANDLER 

I i 

AUTHOR OF “AXTHE” 


ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR 



NEW YORK: HUNT & EATON 
CINCINNATI : CRANSTON & CURTS 
1895 


ST>/0S 



.0 


Copyright by 
HUNT & EATON, 
1894 . 


Composition, electrot5’’ping, 
printing, and binding by 
Hunt & Eaton, 

150 Fifth Ave., New York. 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

MINA, 

THE BEAUTIFUL LEONBERQ, 

THIS VOLUME 


IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 




TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


BARNEY, 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Beginning of It 3 

II. Presto ! 15 

III. How IT Came About 23 

IV. A Pile o’ Money 34 

V. Barney Scents Mischief 42 

VI. Trouble in Earnest 48 

VII. Another Change 61 

VIII. Pictures and Plans. 70 

IX. Barney Immortalized 76 

X. Barney as Comforter 79 

XI. Changed Fortunes 84 

XII. “He is very Beautiful to Me” 99 

COSSACK. 

I. The Boy Artist 121 

II. The Dog Gives His Opinion of a Picture 132 

III. Siegfried Hears about a Hero 138 

IV. Cossack to the Rescue 144 

V. Cossack Does Not Approve 152 

VI. New Experiments 157 

VII. A Shadow :66 

VIII. The Shadow Creeps Closer 177 


viii TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

IX. “ Sehr Lieblich ” 184 

X. Frogs and Other Things 191 

^ XI. The Dark Little Man 201 

XII. And Then — 216 

REX. 

AN AUTO-BOW-WOW-OGRAPHY. 

I. His Introduction 225 

II. His Journey 237 

III. His New Home 248 

IV. Kitty and the Cakes 259 

V. New Friends 266 

VI. In the Pantry Again 277 

VII. Wild Thoughts 281 

VIII. An Expected Guest 284 

IX. A Chapter of Incidents 299 

X. “A Brave Lad!” 314 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“ Barney was not Beautiful” Frontispiece , 

Mina the Beautiful Leonberg Dedication . 

“Barney was Off Butterfly Hunting” 5 

“ Was it the Butterfly of his Puppy Days?” 19 

“ She Could Wear Gold Slippers if She Wanted to . . 35 

“ Barney Turned into the Deep Shadow ” 55 

“ Barney Laid all the Blame Upon the Troublesome 

White Heifer” 59 

“ Looked into the Face of his Little Mistress for 

Further Enlightenment” 67 

“He Turned Away with a Sheepish Air” 94 

“ Barney was not at all Superstitious ” 103 

“ Maysie was Startled at Hearing a Furious Roar ” 1 1 1 

Tailpiece 116 

“ Cossack was the First to See the Shadow ” 120 

Cossack’s Criticism 134 

“He Began to Wonder a Great Deal” 159 

“ Something that no Self-respecting Dog Could Accept ” 163 

“In THE Old Sweet Days” 167 

“ He Used to Pull the Curtain Aside to Make Sure that 

They had not Started Off for School” 171 

“ With a Wise, Wise Look on his Little Green Face ”. . 193 
“The Tales were Quite Blood-curdling” 198 


X 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

“ Some One Whom it was very Easy to Like ” 21 1 

“ Cossack Grown Older and Wiser ” 218 

Tailpiece i 220 

“I Had Been Studying very Hard and the Scolding 

NEARLY Broke my Heart” 224 

Mr. Sidney W. Smith 228 

“ It is Not at all Difficult to Drive ” 267 

“ Longing to Rescue Some One ” 271 

“The Pretty Picture she Used to Make ” 285 

“ O, You Innocent ! ” 290 

Rector, Sr., the Largest Dog in the World 303 

“ It’s even Better than Treeing a Cat ” 31 1 

“ Any Man who Touches this Dog Will Have to Settle 

WITH Me ! ” 317 

“ I Put it Carefully Upon the Floor ”... 324 

Tailpiece 327 


BARNEY 


*v 


BARNEY. 


I. 

THE BEGINNING OF IT. 

B arney was not beautiful. He was not 
attractive. Nobody ever called him wise 
or good. In fact, nobody ever took the trouble 
to say much of anything about him. Sometimes, 
if he did not appear at mealtime, the grand- 
mother wondered, in a rambling way, what he 
was up to now. And when it was time for the 
cows to be brought from the pasture at night, if 
Barney did not come around there were ques- 
tionings of a more threatening character; for 
Barney was neither man nor boy. He was not 
even a colored farm hand, like the one who 
served on the place ’’ next to his. He was of 
much less account, although more faithful. He 
set no price upon his labors, though he did 
everything that he could. He never grumbled, 
although he did not receive a ' ‘ thank you for his 
pains. In the heat or cold, in the snow or rain, 
he was always ready, always glad to do whatever 
he could. For Barney was only a dog. And 


4 


BARNEY. 


he was not highly bred, though he never thought 
of himself if he could serve another. He had 
not been delicately reared; still, his manners 
were better than those of some children and 
some people whom you and I know. He was 
born in an old shed belonging to the county 
poorhouse ; so there was no past glory in his 
life over which he could fondly sigh. 

You can readily understand that it had been 
‘‘born in him” to accept anything without 
complaint, and, what was still better, to expect 
nothing. His mother followed a wretched mas- 
ter to that place of unsavory history, and lived 
on for one brief summer content to get an occa- 
sional word from him as he lazily sunned him- 
vSelf on the pine board bench in the yard ; for she 
had to live in hiding, taking whatever she could 
find in the garbage pail when no one was look- 
ing, and quenching her thirst in the brown brook 
under the willows, where the little minnows 
swam and sported in the sunshine — though where 
they went when it rained and the brook grew 
thick Barney’s mother never knew. 

Six puppies came one day to live with her and 
to brighten life in the wretched old shed. They 
were not discovered until they had grown large 
enough to run about and do all sorts of things 
that were dear to the dog mother’s heart. 

Then they were all drowned one morning in 
the brown brook where the minnows swam — all 
except Barney, who chanced to be off butterfly 


THE BEGINNING OF IT. 


5 


hunting. He came back after a little to find the 
old shed deserted, for the dog mother lay out- 
side quite motionless, with a suspicious hole in the 
side of her head. His whole family wiped out 
at once ! What a lonesome, gray world it be- 
came to the unnamed little puppy who had 
been playing with 
the beautiful, gold- | 
en-winged butter- I 

fly! Ii 

Barney sat down 
and wept such great 
wails of sorrow that the 
superintendent came 
out and gazed at him. 

And as he gazed a 
shiver crept up his 
back, and he began to 
wonder, with the won- 
dering fear of the ig- 
norant, if one of the 
little dogs had come to 
life again and was go- 
ing to haunt him . He was not in the mood for any 
more killing just then, so the little thing escaped 
with its life. But nobody seemed to think that 
it might be hungry ! 

When the superintendent hitched up ” to go 
after a new inmate for the house, he threw the 
body of Barney’s mother into the old wagon so 

as to drop it into the gully on the way over. 

2 



“ BARNEY WAS OFF BUTTERFLY 
HUNTING.” 


BARNEY. 


The baby dog followed as far as he could. 
But no matter how fast his short little legs flew 
up and down and in and out, the old wagon was 
soon out of sight, and its creaking and rattling 
died from his hearing. He plodded on, and, 
coming to where two roads met, took the wrong 
one and went on and on until he fell quite help- 
less by the way. 

He was picked up by the hired man from the 
nearest farm and carried into the barn. Milk 
was filched for him from the pails at milking 
time until he grew so strong that he could not 
be kept in his place of hiding, and so was found 
out by the farmer himself. 

By this time he was plump and promising. 
The farmer wondered much as to ^ ' how on 
airth ” he came there; but finally made up his 
mind that a bull pup, properly broke in,” and 
with his ears and tail properly cut off, might be 
of use about the place. 

So Barney was permitted to stay. The hired 
man who had picked him up ventured to object 
to the cutting, but was met by the unanswerable 
statement that '' a bulldog wasn’t no kind of a 
bulldog till his ears and tail was off.” 

So the little creature lost those members at 
three fell blows, and was carefully nursed and 

’tended” by ‘^the hand” until the wounds 
healed — for of course they healed. Who ever 
heard of wounds — whether of heart or of head, 
or even of puppy dogs’ tails — that did not heal? 


THE BEGINNING OF IT. 


7 


It was soon late in the season, and the farm 
hand had to go away. His time was up. The 
farmer himself always ’tended to the chores in 
winter time. The name of the one who nursed 
the half-dead little dog back into life upon stolen 
milk was Barnabas — Barney for short. He taught 
the little creature to come at the name of Jack. 
But when the chill November rains began, Bar- 
ney said such a long and sorry good night once 
to his dumb little friend — so very long and sorry 
a good night — that the dog’s heart was filled with 
a nameless something which made it ache harder 
than hunger ever could. 

When the morning came he ran all about, but 
could not find his one friend. Then life became 
gray once more, as it was at the close of that 
other day when he had chased the yellow but- 
terfly. 

The farmer began to call the little dog by the 
name that the hired man had borne. It was a 
fashion he had, this of transferring the name of 
a man to any animal with which he had been 
associated. It was the one facetious thing that 
the farmer ever, in his whole life, attempted. 
If he had bought a horse it forthwith lost its 
own name and was called by that of the former 
owner. The old gray who plowed and reaped 
and plodded on in the busy life of a farm horse 
was called Tar Box, because he had once be- 
longed to a man whose name was a little like it. 
And a cow, traded for with the widow of Leon- 


8 


BARNEY. 


ard C. Lynch, was always spoken of as the 

Widder Clinch.’’ 

So Jack was no longer Jack. He was Barney, 
thenceforth, Barney forever — if there is anything 
with so mighty a meaning for an honest, faithful 
heart beating within a form that was as surely 
made by the hand of God as any of his creatures, 
even though it was made by that hand into the 
shape that we call, not man, but dog. 

Barney’s life went on for three years. It was 
as dull as was that of his master — steady-go- 
ing, plodding, with nothing that some call life 
ever so much as touching it. A newspaper 
never fluttered by bringing a thrill of contact 
with the outer world, and a letter was as rare 
a visitor as was the angel of death. 

It was a life that went on and on, without 
ever pausing to uncover its head before the 
beauty of God’s mornings, on without stopping 
to listen to the songs of birds, except to grudge 
the cherries that the tiny bills picked as payment 
from the great stores of nature for the music 
breathed into God’s ear, a life that would not stop 
in its dismal round of duties to see any beauty 
anywhere, to hear any music, or to breathe in 
gladly the fragrance that God’s breezes set astir. 

But Barney did not know how dull and plod- 
ding it all was. He had never known anything 
better, and supposed that the days must be just 
as dead and pale to every other creature as they 
were to his master. 


THE BEGINNING OF IT. 


9 


But there was something on the way to Bar- 
ney, something very beautiful, if he could only 
have known. To be sure, a thing had happened 
which was quite new to him, a thing which set 
the inmates of the faded red farmhouse into a 
great flutter of uneasy flxing-up. 

But Barney did not dream that the square of 
white paper handed to the farmer one day, just 
as they came up at noon from the plowing, could 
have anything to do with him. He did not 
dream that it meant love, and brightness, and 
suffering, too — for where was there ever love 
without sorrow somewhere near? — that it meant 
life in all its fullness of fond devotion and a 
death of self-sacriflce. 

No; Barney did not understand it at all. He 
blinked his round eyes, and shut his short jaws 
together, and stretched his brindled form on the 
grass as usual after the long morning of follow- 
ing the plow patiently back and forth over the 
soft furrows of earth. 

Still, Barney felt that it was a very mysterious 
bit of paper, for after the farmer and the hand 
— who was not Barney now, but Johnson — 
and the grandmother, and Aunt Polly, and the 
fault-flnding member of the family had all 
looked at it, it suddenly became two pieces of 
paper, one of them very much larger than the 
first, and covered all over with faint lines. 

Barney Avas so excited over the excitement 
caused by that bit of paper that he would have 


10 


BARNEY. 


stepped into the kitchen to see what it was all 
about, had not a stick of wood been flung at him 
by the Fault-flnder. 

But he heard about it afterward in little bits. 
He got at the story from the wrong end, and 
had to go backward in order to make it out. 
But he got hold of it at last ; and, seeing nothing 
in it that could concern him, dropped it, and 
went on with life in the old unexpectant fashion. 

This is the story that Barney made out from 
what he chanced to overhear: Sometime, years 
back, before Barney had come to live at the 
farm, or even before he came to live anywhere, 
there was one in this family of Boltons who was 
not like the rest, one who was to the others 
what the eagle is to the barnyard fowl. Not 
that the common barnyard fowl is of no account 
— O, not by any means. What would become of 
the Christmas days, and the days of thanksgiv- 
ing, and the beautiful Easter time with its white 
symbol, if these were not? 

Barney could never have made light of the im- 
portance of these, even had he so inclined ; for 
it was from the fowls that he got all his infor- 
mation. But they seemed to realize, at last, 
that their life had not, and never could have, sat- 
isAed the Eagle ; for the Eagle forgot his work 
sometimes, when the beauty about him pressed in 
upon his heart. And once when a great storm 
was coming, and there was hay to be gathered 
into the barn, he was nowhere to be found. 


THE BEGINNING OF IT. II 

The majesty of the high clouds, forming as if 
for battle, so held him that he forgot himself 
and everything else — forgot even that hay was 
scarce at twelve dollars the ton. He stood all 
drenched and windblown, and watched the 
stately columns of the storm, while his eyes 
flashed and the color shone brightly through the 
brown in his boyish cheeks. 

Meanwhile, the hay was wet and its price 
lessened. The Eagle was brought out of his joy 
in the beauty and grandeur of the sky, down to 
the earthly, the realistic part of life, by harsh 
words and a heavy blow. Being an Eagle he was 
not patient with such things. So that very night, 
while the earth was still wet with the storm, he 
spread his wings and flew away. He was not 
heard of afterward, until one day the hand of a 
neighbor brought a parcel from the post office to 
the door of the old house. It was found to con- 
tain a volume of verses, wonderful thoughts 
which had been given to the Eagle when his 
heart flew up into the heart of the great, tender 
sky. 

Very simple they were, and sweet. Some of 
them were lofty and high, so stirring that even 
Barney’s life must have taken on a deeper pur- 
pose if he could have lived at the feet of such a 
master. But he could not. And the others were 
not touched by it. 

The little volume was talked over and smiled 
at in a superior way, as if the rest of the family 


12 


BARNEY. 


knew better than to spend their lives in such a 
slight manner. It was passed from one pair of 
curious hands to another, and finally it was 
wrapped again in the covering that brought it, 
and laid away beside the brand-new and never- 
to-be-touched illustrated Bible on the stand in 
the ‘^square room.'* And now that the Eagle 
was dead, his widow — one in whose veins flowed 
the aristocratic blood of the Southerner — wanted 
to come with her little daughter to visit the 
home where her beloved husband had first seen 
the light, the home of which he talked musingly 
during the days before his soul went out for its 
last great flight. 

There had been broken words about a great 
and stately storm that swept in mighty columns 
down the valley ; some pathetic wondering about 
the long windrows of hay in the meadow, and 
a little pleading to be understood. That was 
all. The soul that had been cramped and 
dwarfed in early life went out into the beauty 
beyond the sunrise, up into the presence of its 
Creator, where, unhindered, it could grow to its 
full stature. 

So ‘‘Tommy’s widder” and the little girl 
were coming, the square of paper said — coming 
to look upon the fields through which Tommy’s 
boyish feet had trampled, coming to be under 
the blue northern sky that had bent over him 
and wooed his eagle’s soul out into its heights, 
coming to clasp the hands and to look lovingly 


THE BEGINNING OF IT. 1 3 

into the faces of those who had dwelt tinder the 
same roof with him in those early days. 

‘'She won't find no poetry nonsense about any 
of us,'" Barney heard the farmer say one day as he 
sat taking his “nooning” in the shade of the 
house. His chair was tilted back against the 
faded red clapboards, and his short clay pipe 
was between his teeth. 

Barney didn’t know what poetry was, but 
somehow it sounded out of tune when the 
farmer spoke it. He felt sure that, if anyone 
were looking for crops of that sort, they would 
better try some other farm. 

“ Sort of hifalutin, the hull bizness,” said the 
Fault-finder. 

This man never worked. He was sick with 
“narves,” or “dispepsy,” or some other equally 
deadly disease, that yet never kills. He did 
nothing himself, but was able to be around so as 
to see that the others did something, and to make 
himself generally disagreeable and other people 
generally uncomfortable. 

His name was Job, the synonym for patience. 
In this case, however, it was not Job, but his 
friends, and all others with whom he came in 
contact, who had need to exercise that divine 
quality. 

Still, the family bore with him. They were 
not sensitive spirits who were easily hurt. Job 
was Job, just as a mule is a mule, and, more 
than that, he was one of them. He did not take 


H 


BARNEY. 


notice of the fields and the low-reaching sky. 
He never for one moment forgot that a load of 
hay would weigh more on the scales than all the 
passing beauty of the heavens. 

Barney used sometimes to wonder what all the 
fuss was about, anyway. The three years of his 
life had not seen any change wrought for the 
better in the old place. 

The plowing was done in its season. The 
seed was scattered when the moon was in the 
right quarter. Little calves and woolly lambs 
and pink and white pigs came in the springtime 
and were sold or killed in the fall, and more of 
the bright, shining, jingling stuff — like pieces 
cut from a milkpan — were counted out to the 
farmer, or more often to the Fault-finding One. 
That was all. Yet life was one long hurry 
and push and pull. The sun did not rise early 
enough to light all the work that had to be done. 

So Barney and his master and the rest of the 
family crept around in the grizzly stillness of 
winter mornings, and in the fragrant moisture 
of the early spring mornings, with the same dull, 
plodding step, and with, never a thrill nor a stir 
of soul such as the Eagle would have felt. 


PRESTO ! 


15 


II. 

PRESTO ! 

N O ; Barney never dreamed that there could 
be anything better in life. To be sure, 
his heart always bounded at sight of a golden- 
winged butterfly, and his sturdy legs went off 
for a brief moment or two upon a wild, eager 
chase. Not that he wanted to kill the pretty 
creature, but that in some dim way, feeling un- 
satisfled with his own brindled hide, he liked to 
have some beautiful thing come near him. 

But these romps never lasted long. Perhaps 
it was the farmer's whistle, or perhaps it was a 
faint memory of what befell him on that other 
day when his first sight of a golden-winged 
creature, flitting hither and thither in the still 
air above him, awoke in him the sense of grace 
and color. 

Whatever it was that brought him back to the 
farmer's heels I do not know. But it is true 
that after every such romp he grew more sober, 
more alert to scent mischief on the remotest 
corner of the old farm, and more savage if a 
stray pig were found in the garden or if neigh- 
boring cattle had broken the line fence and got- 
ten into the corn. He was fond of following the 


i6 


BARNEY. 


rusty, rattling old democrat buggy to town. He 
liked to get a glimpse of town life, and perhaps 
have a rousing fight or two with those town-bred 
curs who dared to stick up unwise noses at his 
seedy appearance and to sniff at his air of pa- 
tient strength. He usually brought a bloody 
wound home from a trip of this kind. And as 
scars do not add to the beauty of any earthly 
creature except the German student, Barney did 
not grow more attractive as the years went by. 

A few days after the mysterious bit of paper 
was brought into the farmhouse, Barney saw 
unmistakable signs of an approaching journey to 
town. 

The old democrat was run down to the lake and 
washed. Then the wheels were taken off in turn, 
and a fresh smear of tar and grease was added 
to each axle. The road harness was brought into 
the kitchen and carefully oiled, and the farmer 
stopped his plowing for a day and began the 
planting, while the Fault-finding One took Tar 
Box, who was the stronger of the two work horses, 
and his own pet sorrel out of the pasture, and put 
them into the stable and gave them each a meas- 
ure of crisp oats. 

Barney remembered a disreputable, lop-eared 
mongrel who, though vanquished at the last env 
counter, had threatened dire things as he sneaked 
out of sight after the wagon was so far on its way 
home that he knew it was too late for Barney to 
turn about and take such vainglory ing out of him. 


PRESTO ! 


17 

So it is not strange that Barney was very much 
interested while the last touches were being 
made in preparation for the trip. He hung 
about and tried to keep out of sigjit until the reins 
were in hand and the horses were ready to start. 
Then he promptly slid to his place under the old 
wagon. 

But he was promptly ordered back by the 
Fault-finder. He jumped the gate as if in per- 
fect obedience. But the memory of the lop- 
eared one was too much of a temptation. He 
took a short cut across the fields and came out 
into the lake road while the old wagon was still 
rattling its noisy way down the steep Whitmore 
hill. He sat down behind a log to wait his 
chance, and slid into the coveted place between 
the wheels just as the horses turned into the long 
vStretch that ended at the station. 

But this time also he was discovered, and was 
ignominiously sent back — back without a battle 
or a wound — back with no taste of the blood of 
the lop-eared to comfort his thirsty heart. Back 
up the hill he plodded, over fences, under 
bushes ; back into the lot where the farmer, with 
bag and hoe, was busy planting. 

‘‘Didn’t make much, did ye, now?” queried 
the farmer as he leaned on his hoe and looked 
down into the broad face with the great patch 
of brindle over its left eye. 

Barney wagged his stump of a tail sheepishly. 
Then he changed the conversation by pricking 


i8 


BARNEY. 


up what remained of his ears and growling fero- 
ciously in the direction of the line fence. 

So the day that was to usher in better things 
to Barney had a. very unpromising opening. 

Early in the afternoon the rusty old democrat 
rattled back over the road and stopped before 
the faded red farmhouse. Barney heard it com- 
ing, but he would not run to meet it. The mem- 
ory of the morning was still fresh in his mind. 
He stayed patiently beside the farmer and kept 
watch to see that the crows did not come hunt- 
ing after the newly planted corn. 

When, at last, the sun was nearly out of sight, 
and the day’s work in the fields was done, he 
started off obediently to bring the cows. His 
way led through the potato field, across the gar- 
den behind the house, into the lane, and then 
on to the other end of the farm. He jumped 
the fence at the foot of the garden, and was 
making his way along when he heard a little 
voice. And it was very near him. It was very 
low and very sweet. It was singing something 
that sounded like Hickory, dickory, dock,” and 
it was all about a mouse that ran up a clock. 

Barney stopped and listened and looked. 
There, under the great, straggling lilac buwshes, 
sat a little figure all in white and gold, with the 
lilac flowers of the bushes in its lap and in its 
hands. 

Was it the butterfly of his puppy days come 
back in more radiant form ? Barney was bewil- 


\ 



I 


WAS IT THE BUTTERFLY OF HIS PUPPY DAYS? 




PRESTO ! 


21 

dered. He stood quite motionless, with one foot 
poised in air. He did not dare to move. 

It was not a child. Barney knew what children 
were, and hated them. He remembered well the 
Thanksgiving time when Sam’l brought to the 
farmhouse his uncanny brood of five romping 
children — two girls and three boys. The girls 
had dark hands and faces, and their faded hair 
was braided into short, thin tails behind each 
ear, and the boys had big, noisy feet, and 
blustering voices and roistering ways. They 
always made the day anything but one of thanks- 
giving for Barney, except that it could and would 
come to an end. 

Then there were the boys who went past the 
farmhouse on their way to and from the district 
vSchool. Once they threw an old coat over his 
head and tied a tin pail that was half full of 
stones about his neck. His tail was gone, and 
they departed from the traditions to make use 
of his neck instead — for the tying on of the pail 
was a necessary thing to them. 

Yes; Barney knew what children were. He 
did not approve of them. 

But this little creature, clad in snowy white, 
with the faint yellow bows set up on its shoul- 
ders like delicate wings, and a great soft mass 
of the same warm color coming out under the 
half-bare arms and spreading richly over the 
deeply colored grass — this little creature with the 
last rays from the sun resting upon its head and 
3 


22 


BARNEY. 


turning all the soft mass about the little face 
into a radiance like that which sometimes shone 
in the western sky — this was not one of them. 

Barney did not know how long he stood there. 
He was afraid to chase it. He did not want it 
to fly away. 

A sharp, impatient whistle aroused them both. 
The little creature turned, and, seeing the dog 
so near, gave a frightened cry and dropped the 
flowers and ran away. 

So it was a butterfly, after all, and it had 
flown away ; and the cows were still in the pasture. 

Barney’s ey^s had been so wide open that they 
smarted ; but he had not known it. His dog’s 
heart thumped hard against his breast ; but 
there was nothing to do but to turn and go back 
in answer to the call. He took the few sharp 
words patiently, endured the kick that followed, 
and then went on his way to the pasture. 

The next morning he was alert. There was 
something unusual in the farmhouse. He knew 
it when he went up to the rusty basin under the 
kitchen steps to look for his breakfast, for he 
heard another voice, which was gentle and full 
of music. He waited until he caught sight of a 
tall lady, with dark hair, whose great dark eyes 
were like those that had looked at him the even- 
ing before. 

Life was changing for Barney. The country 
seemed very broad and fair, and the fragrance 
of springtime filled all the air. 


HOW IT CAME ABOUT. 


23 


III. 

HOW IT CAME ABOUT. 

B arney was deeply interested in every- 
thing that concerned the farm or the 
family. And why shouldn’t he be ? Each 
creature treading those broad acres was in his 
care, under his protection — and under his disci- 
pline, too, sometimes, especially the pigs, for 
no one was so well qualified to attend to these 
latter as was Barney. He was so fleet of foot, 
so sure of scent, so sharp of tooth. He knew 
how necessary his services as guardian were. 
No one ever troubled to tell him about it nor to 
thank him for it ; but he knew that every inmate 
of the old farmhouse slept more securely through 
the darkest night because he was near. 

So you can readily understand how he should 
feel a bit curious about the two strangers who 
had come under the roof of his care. But, as he 
was never allowed to put even so much as his 
nose inside of the door, it was not the easiest 
thing in the world to get acquainted with 
them. 

There was no one to speak a friendly word for 
him. His own duties kept him in distant parts 
of the farm throughout nearly the whole of each 


24 


BARNEY. 


day. It was some time before lie saw them again. 
When he did see them they were walking, or, 
rather, the lady walked, while the other danced 
— or fluttered, perhaps, since it was a butterfly — 
beside her. 

Finally, however, he came again upon the lit- 
tle creature when she was alone. She had found 
a humming-bird’s nest in the lilac bushes, and 
was standing on tiptoe to gaze at it. One pretty 
arm, bare to the elbow, hung at her side. Barney 
stole up and touched it caressingly with his tongue. 

The little creature turned and looked at him 
with terror in her eyes. She opened her mouth 
to cry out, but fright kept the cry from coming. 
Her lips turned pale, her eyes closed, and she 
sank in a mass of white and gold upon the grass 
at his feet. 

Barney was seized with remorse. He ran to 
the house barking and whining piteously. But 
as his doings, outside of the commonest doglike 
doings, were of no importance, no one attended 
to him. He ran again to the lilac bushes and 
bent over the white little face, and touched it — 
O so tenderly! — with his big tongue. He had 
not meant to kill it; he had not even chased it; 
and it was dead. He sent up another wail for 
help, such a piteous wail that Aunt Polly was 
really startled. It was unlike Barney to make a 
fuss. So she ran down to the lilac bushes, and, 
flnding the crumpled little flgure, gathered it up 
in her arms and hurried to the house. 


HOW IT CAME ABOUT. 


25 


Barney followed her to the door — inside the 
door — and saw the lady come forward with a 
pitiful look upon her face. Then he went out, 
not because he wanted to go, but because they did 
not forget to send him out, even with the fright 
upon them. 

The poor dog-heart was sorely troubled. He 
hung about the door, listening anxiously. After a 
little he was made glad by hearing the tiny voice 
again. Then he went to the barn and lay down 
in the sunshine and wondered about many things. 

After that he often saw the two in whom he 
felt such great interest. The lady made him 
happy by calling him to her and smoothing his 
head, and speaking to him as he had never been 
spoken to in all the three years of his life. 

But the beautiful being for whom he cared so 
much could not be induced to let him approach 
her. She was not like the butterflies in one 
thing. She did not wait to be chased ; she flew 
away whenever he came near. For because he 
had seen that she was afraid of the geese, too, 
he ran with all his might to drive them away 
whenever he saw them near her. 

But he usually succeeded in frightening her 
still more than had the geese — the gabbling 
geese who could do nothing for her, and who 
did not seem to care for anyone except them- 
selves. His senses came to be as bewildered 
as on that day — now three years gone — when 
he had chased the butterfly, not to kill it, 


26 


BARNEY. 


oh, no ! but because it was so tiny and so fair 
that he wanted its presence to hover alway about 
his path. 

It escaped him then because it was so fair and 
so frail, and because he was so clumsy, and his 
hue so somber. And this ? — it must be the 
same one come back to tempt him, after it had 
‘‘blossomed out,’’ so to speak. 

He could find no way in which to recommend 
himself to her. He could not think of any dur- 
ing* the short hour of the “ nooning,” when he 
lay upon the grass in the shade of the house, 
nor when he went about his daily task of fol- 
lowing the mowing machine, or the rake as it 
rolled the sweet-scented hay into long, loose 
windrows. 

It grew to be pathetic. If any great, tender 
Presence from above does lean to take note of 
the longing of such as Barney, then He must 
have been touched into pity at Barney’s trouble. 
For he began to have an ache inside of his brin- 
dled breast that was like hunger, only that noth- 
ing he could find in the rusty old basin under 
the kitchen steps ever served to drive it away. 

What was the matter with him ? For the first 
time in his life Barney began to think about his 
appearance. Brindle was not a beautiful color. 
And the white on his feet and legs was too often 
soiled with the stains of honest labor — following 
the plow or the planter. He got into the habit 
of running down to the lake to take a bath after 


HOW IT CAME ABOUT. 2/ 

the day’s work was over, and before his real 
duty as watchdog began. 

Once he caught a reflection of himself in the 
still water just as he was about to plunge in. 
It was so ugly, with its flerce jaws, cropped ears, 
and the disreputable patch over the left eye, that 
he growled threateningly. He thought it was 
some other dog coming to the surface after a 
plunge. But a moment later he came to under- 
stand that it was himself. 

The knowledge was not pleasant. He backed 
up and sat down upon the beach. If his tail had 
been long enough he could perhaps have found 
some satisfaction in tucking it between his legs. 
But even that poor consolation was denied to 
Barney. He took his usual swim, but the vigor 
and pleasure had gone out of it. He knew, at 
last, why such a creature of sunshine could not 
abide his presence. Well, if he could succeed 
in thinking of some way in which to serve her 
it would not matter so much, perhaps. 

He sighed as he trotted patiently up the hill, 
and after going all about to be sure that every- 
thing was as it should be, he sighed again as 
he crept into the dilapidated box that served 
him as kennel, and began to stir up the mat- 
ted straw that made his bed. He was about 
to lie down, when a new thought came into his 
mind. It was a thought which made him leave 
the bed untrampled and the box unoccupied 
— a thought which brought suspicion and blame 


28 


BARNEY. 


and suffering in its train, but which Barney was 
always glad had come to him, since it also brought 
with it that for which he had sighed. 

This is what the thought caused Barney to do : 
He sprang out of his box, and going cautiously 
around under the windows of the spare bed- 
room — the wide, low bedroom off from the 
square room — he scented the air all about, and 
then lay down upon the grass under the one 
nearest the road. He stayed there all night. It 
rained just before daybreak, and, although his box 
was far from being a safe shelter from the storm, 
it was better than nothing. But he stayed pa- 
tiently in his self-appointed station, and his 
brindle coat was wet through to the very skin. 

This last proved to be a very bad thing for 
poor Barney. But as thoughts of self had never 
affected his sense of duty or fidelity, it was not 
to be expected that even a drenching shower 
would make him desert his post. 

When morning came a man from a corner of 
one of the farms on the turnpike — Barney knew 
him well, and did not like him — came to the 
house. He called the farmer and the Fault-finder 
out and talked to them in an excited manner. 

After he had gone away the two whistled to 
Barney, who ran to them without delay. It was 
his nature to obey. They put their hands upon 
his coat. It was wet. They looked at each other 
with lowering faces. Then they went to the 
rickety old box. The musty straw had not been 


HOW IT CAME ABOUT. 


29 


slept on. Ominous words were muttered about 
‘ ‘ taking it out of him” — though what it was that 
needed to be taken out Barney could not imagine. 
After breakfast he started to follow the farmer 
and Johnson to the field, but was kicked and sent 
back. 

The Fault-finder went into the barn and called, 
in no gentle voice, 

'' Com’ mere ! ” 

A strong chain was hooked into the strap about 
the dog’s neck, and fastened to a wheel of the 
heavy lumber wagon that occupied nearly half of 
the barn-fioor space. 

Barney knew then what was coming, though 
he did not know why it should come. He knew 
it as well before the old cartwhip was taken from 
its hook as he did when he really saw it in the 
hands that had chained him — knew it as surely 
as when he felt the heavy lash upon his flesh. 
He crept the length of his chain to get near to 
the feet of the one w^ho had this power over him. 
He tried by every means at his command to show 
that he was obedient and humble and that he 
would be obedient and humble, and even for- 
giving, through all the future of his life. But it 
did no good. The blows fell steadily until even 
his bulldog power of endurance could bear no 
more. He had to cry out. He cried with pain 
and pleading in his voice. He cried and begged 
as only a creature whom we poor, deaf ones call 
dumb can cry and plead. But it did no good. 


30 


BARNEY. 


‘ ‘ A regular-built thrashin’ ” had been decided 
upon, and the Cruel One was not to be moved by 
the anguish of the one tormented. 

Up at the farmhouse, the windows being open, 
the sound of the blows was heard. The mother 
and little daughter were startled. They looked 
at each other with troubled faces. But when 
the sound of the cries came also they were dis- 
tressed. 

Barney free might be an object of terror to 
the delicate child, but Barney suffering stirred 
her little heart to its profoundest depths. The 
two hastened to the kitchen with eager question- 
ings. But they received short answers. 

The little one ran toward the barn. The 
mother went more slowly. She was held back 
by a warning from Aunt Polly to the effect that 
'' hwa'n't healthy to meddle with Job.’' 

But the w^arning did not reach the ears of the 
child, and would not have affected her if it had. 
She flew down the lane like the winged creature 
poor Barney believed her to be ; tugged with all 
her small strength at the heavy door until it 
opened so that she could crowd her tiny body 
through, and in another moment was in the pres- 
ence of such cruelty and suffering as her innocent 
eyes had never witnessed and as her innocent 
heart could not understand. Her Southern blood 
took fire. Running up to the angry, perspiring 
man, she caught him by the arm, and stamping 
her small foot cried : 


HOW IT CAME ABOUT. 3 1 

Stop ! you bad man ! You bad, wicked man ; 
/ tell you^ stop! ” 

She looked like a queen, and a queen who was 
used to having her subjects obey. 

For a moment the Cruel One paused. The 
courage of the child surprised him. Then a 
sneer passed over his face. Go back to your 
ma,'’ he said as he raised the whip. 

Another blow fell upon the quivering flesh of 
the poor beast, and a pitiful cry smote the air. 

The next instant the child threw herself at 
full length beside the dog. She wound her arms 
about his neck. She shielded his head with her 
own, and blinded his bloodshot eyes with the 
gold of her hair. She stretched out her own tiny 
legs as if she would cover him from the blows. 

The whip had been raised, and the arm of the 
Cruel One had begun its descent with added 
strength. He could not break the force of the 
blow, though he would have done so if he could. 
The long lash fell again. But it did not reach 
poor Barney. It left its cruel, bloody mark along 
the tiny bare arm that was hugging him close. 

A cry of pain forced itself through the little 
lips, and the mother, with an angry shriek, was 
on the floor beside the two sufferers. She caught 
the child to her breast. Poor Barney crept up, 
and with low moans caressed the little face — the 
dear face — and the tiny hands. 

The Cruel One, ashamed at last, heard without 
rebuke the scornful words that followed, saying. 


32 


BARNEY. 


in surly excuse, that the brute — think of it ! the 
brute — had been off all night sheep-killing, and 
he’d get killed himself ‘‘ef he ever done it 
agin !” 

Then the lady, looking up from her place on 
the dusty floor of the old barn, held her child 
close to her breast and laid one hand on the 
brindled head that was stretching with all its 
weary might to get nearer to her, and said that 
the dog had been every hour and every half 
hour of the night under her window. She had 
been sad and ill, and had not slept, and had 
been at the window the whole night through. 
She had reached down and patted his big, strong 
head, and had found comfort in his presence. 

The chain was unfastened. Barney did not 
throttle and kill the other brute, though he could 
have done it with those mighty jaws. 

The woman, the child, and the dog were left 
alone — alone with their pain of heart and body 
and their disgust at man’s unmanliness. Their 
hearts ran over with affection and gratitude for 
one another. 

Barney’s bruised and beaten body was nursed 
back to soundness with soothing liniments. The 
cruel mark on the little arm remained for many 
days a witness to the courage that dwelt in the 
little heart. 

And Barney? Well, Barney knew without 
shadow of doubt that the old farm had been 
suddenly transported into paradise. To be 


HOW IT CAME ABOUT. 


33 


loved, caressed, trusted affectionately instead 
of grudgingly, to hear his name called gently, 
with no threatening in the tone, to be really 
welcomed by anyone, and to have the beau- 
tiful creature of his adoration run to meet him ! 
What more could he ask? It was enough for 
Barney. 


34 


BARNEY. 


IV. 

‘‘A PILE o’ MONEY.” 

I T soon became noised about in the neighbor- 
hood that strangers were spending the sum- 
mer at the Bolton farmhouse. 

The ^‘widder” of Thomas Bolton, who went 
off so long ago because the family objected to 
his writing poetry in haying time, began to be 
much talked about. The women of the adjoin- 
ing farms had a new subject to discuss when 
they took their mending or knitting and ' ‘ run 
in ” for an hour to chat with a neighbor. The 
farmers themselves were not above touching 
upon the theme when they met by chance at the 
corners or at the blacksmith’s shop on a rainy 
day. Barefooted boys and brown-cheeked girls 
for miles around knew about the sunny-haired 
child. They gathered in groups, as opportunity 
offered, to tell marvelous tales about her. 

Fortunate ones who could be spared to attend 
the district school, and whose way led past the 
house that sheltered her, lingered so long, if by 
chance the little figure was in sight, as to receive 
a chiding at home or at the school. 

' ‘ She could wear gold slippers if she wanted 
to, she was so rich !” they said. Indeed, accord- 


“A PILE o’ MONEY.” 


35 


ing to the popular childish fancy in the region 
of the old farm, Cinderella’s fairy godmother 
was quite distanced by the possibilities that 
were at the command of this favored one. To be 
sure, she wore very simple little white gowns, 
which clung to her dainty form and drifted off 



“SHE COULD 'WEAR GOLD SLIPPERS IF SHE WANTED TO.” 


into soft-meshed laces at the edges. But they 
were always touched with some tender tint of 
color at the shoulders, which also made a circle 
under the arms, and then massed itself at the 
back like daintily folded wings. 

This was very sweet and pretty. “ But she 
could wear satins and velvets, if she only cared 


36 


BARNEY. 


to, and she could not only have them embroid- 
ered with pearls, but with all manner of precious 
stones !” 

They saw her every Sunday at the little white 
meeting house. They were never tired of watch- 
ing her. Sometimes she held a flower in her 
tiny hands, and she always bowed her head just 
when the lady did — the quiet lady with the 
charm in face and manner. They were often 
so engrossed in watching the devout air of the 
little one as to forget that anything outwardly 
or in wardly devotional could be required of them. 

The young minister wondered in his simple, 
unworldly heart at the increasing congregations, 
increasing, too, just at the time of year when 
he had been forewarned that, with the crowding 
of farm work, his flock would be so weary in 
body that their souls would have to travel the 
heavenly way undirected, so far as his teachings 
were concerned. 

But somehow it did not prove to be such an 
Herculean effort to hitch up'’ as had been 
pictured. A morsel of life from a sunnier clime 
had flown that way. It was a pleasure for some 
and an envy for others to approach it. So the 
high-backed, uncushioned pews were filled Sun- 
day after Sunday, and the fame of the earnest 
young preacher was strengthened in all the cir- 
cuit around. 

Huldah Green went each week to the Boltons’ 
after the laundry work for these two — the ‘ ‘ flum- 


''A PILE o' money/' 


37 


my-diddles,” as Aunt Polly called them. She 
was a little proud when occasion offered for the 
display of the delicate linens and laces which she 
' ' done up ” with such care. These occasions were 
pretty sure to come, for late in the week some 
of the neighboring women usually ‘ ‘ dropped 
in,” since nobody in all the country around was 
above making a friendly call upon an honest 
woman, especially when some sweet morsel of 
gossip was waiting to be tasted. 

It was a pleasure to Huldah to pile the old 
willow basket with the foamy aprons and skirts 
and gowns, and the pleasure was deeper be- 
cause they were received so kindly by the gentle 
Southerner. 

This Southern lady must have a pile of money, 
poor Huldah said, because she would never take 
any ‘‘change” in return, and seemed to think 
the prices low. This was something entirely new 
to Huldah, who was accustomed to the grinding 
prices paid in farming districts. But in her un- 
wisdom she never thought to treble her prices so 
as to get all that was within reach. And then 
the linens were so fine and the cambrics so sheer, 
and they were all made with such dainty handi- 
work ! 

One day Huldah was unusually high in praise 
of her patroness. When at last she tied on her 
freshly starched gingham sunbonnet and lifted 
the basket into the dilapidated little lumber 
wagon, and after clambering over the wheel took 
4 


38 


BARNEY. 


Up the lines'’ and started the blind old horse 
off to deliver the work, Zek'l Green, her hus- 
band, who had the reputation of being the lazi- 
est man in the county, slowly took the pipe from 
his mouth and knocked the ashes into the broken 
hearth of the kitchen stove. 

They do say she’s got a pile o’ money, that 
Southern woman,” he said, without looking at 
his brother, who was leaning back against the 
wall on the opposite side of the stove. 

’Lisher nodded and echoed, pile o’ money.” 

Several minutes passed. 

As these men never knew what it was to feel 
in haste it is no wonder that their conversation 
often flagged. But for once in his life one of 
them was in earnest. He eyed ’Lisher out of 
the corner of his eyes for some time. Then, as 
he reached slowly after the bag of tobacco in the 
hip pocket of his faded and patched overalls, he 
spoke again. 

And they do say that she sets big store by 
that leetle gal o’ hern.” 

Again ’Lisher nodded. He was not easily 
aroused. He had concluded, after a life of over 
forty years, that scarcely anything in this world 
or the next was worth much attention upon his 
part. So he simply nodded and smoked on. 

^‘S’posin’ now,” said Zek’l, as he Ashed the 
bag from his pocket, jest s’posin’ suthin’ hap- 
pened to the leetle gal. S’posin’ she got sick, 
or most drownded, or suthin’.” 


‘‘A PILE o’ MONEY.” 


39 


A longer pause; still ’Lisher took no interest. 
His feet were on the rounds of his tilted chair, 
his hands were comfortably tucked into his 
breeches pockets, and his eyes were only open 
far enough to permit him to watch the smoke 
as it rose slowly and noiselessly from his pipe. 

'^Or, s’posin’ she run off and lost herself — 
sech a leetle gal, and sech a big farm, with the 
woods jest t’other side of the pastur ’ ! ” 

’Lisher opened his eyes and looked at his 
brother. Something akin to interest began to 
glimmer in them. 

Lost herself F' he echoed. 

But now it was Zek’l’s turn to be indifferent. 
He took two full minutes to crowd the tobacco 
into the ill-smelling old pipe with his thumb. 

‘‘That’s what I said,” he answered, as he began 
stirring the ashes for a coal. Then he turned 
his head so that it was a trifle easier to keep 
watch of his brother. 

“‘Lost herself!''' repeated ’Lisher with a 
chuckle as he took the pipe from between his 
teeth. 

“ That’s jest what I said,” answered the other 
with the firmness of a judge upon the Supreme 
Bench. “ S’pOwSin’ the leetle gal lost herself 
was found by some fellers that was, mebbe, like 
you an’ me, now — s’pose that Southern woman 
wouldn’t give a pile o’ that money to the fellers 
what found the leetle gal, hey? ” 

’Lisher let his chair slowly forward until it 


40 


BARNEY. 


stood upon all four of its legs. Then he leaned 
over and looked into his brother's face. 

‘‘ What ye up to now, Zek’l? " 

But Zek’l lit his pipe and took two or three 
puffs. Strange that no matter if the barrel were 
empty of flour and the old shed innocent of shel- 
tering such foolishness as firewood the tobacco 
was never quite gone from the dirty leathern 
pouch in Zek’l Green’s hip pocket. 

‘^Nothin’, nothin’ ’tall,” he answered. ‘‘It 
jest happened to come into my mind, and I got 
to wondering as to ’bout how much that South- 
ern woman ’d be willing to plank down.” 

“ Now you’re talkin’ bizness,” said ’Lisher, 
with the air of a money king; “ and I’m allers 
willing to talk with a man when he talks biz- 
ness.” 

So while honest, hard-worked Huldah was 
urging the blind old horse back to the miserable 
place she had to call home, her ne’er-do-well 
husband was planning evil against the very one 
whose kindly words and deeds had caused her 
discouraged heart to stir into warmth. 

Huldah had buried her children with tears; 
but with the passing years she had come to 
thank God, as the one blessing of her life, that 
they had been taken. With the blood of such a 
father in their veins she would have feared for 
them. Now they were vSafe. Huldah didn’t 
know much about creeds. It might be easy for 
^he doors of heaven to close in her face, but they 


PILE o' MONEY. 


41 


must surely swing wide open for her babies, if, 
indeed, there were any immortality, and if there 
were such a place as heaven. For moments 
came to Huldah when even a belief in heaven 
was not easy to her aching heart. But if there 
were such a place her babies had found it. And 
if they grew up into manhood and womanhood 
before she reached them, they would have grown 
up in the presence of those who were better fit- 
ted to train them than she could be. And if her 
hungry heart should find them as babies still, 
and her so long empty arms could clasp them 
once more, she would fling herself before the 
feet that had been bruised and torn, the blessed 
feet that had also walked the sorrowful paths of 
life alone and uncomforted. . . . 

Poor Huldah could never get farther than this 
in her thought. Her heart got too big and her 
eyes too dim, and something always choked her 
so that she could not even think clearly any 
more. 

But there sometimes came to her beaten spirit 
the vision of sl gracious Presence bending to lay 
hands upon her babies' heads and to whisper 
something that sounded like, '‘For of such is 
the kingdom of heaven." 


42 


BARNEY. 


V. 

BARNEY SCENTS MISCHIEF. 

B arney had at last made up his mind 
about his idol. She was neither child nor 
butterfly. She was some intermediate human 
creature better than either, yet possessing the 
best qualities of both; something sweeter and 
dearer. A radiant life that had flitted into the 
path along which his own patient feet were plod- 
ding. She was very lovable. He knew it by 
his dog’s heart. Her voice was sweet. There 
was a ring in it like the song of the birds his 
master stoned, so he set a watch that she should 
not be stoned away. 

There was nothing in his power that he would 
not do at the command of that birdlike voice. 
There was no peril he would not risk, no pain 
he would not endure. If it were to call him 
from the other side of Are or flood, then he 
would brave the Are or the flood, and nothing 
but death itself could keep him from answering 
its call with his presence. Indeed, the chief hap- 
piness of his life was to hear it calling, ' ‘ Barney, 
Barney ! Where are you, Barney? ” 

He no longer ate from the rusty basin under 
the kitchen steps. Maysie herself fed him in a 


BARNEY SCENTS MISCHIEF. 


43 


big new bowl that her mother bought from a 
peddler’s cart, a beautiful bowl of blue and white. 
Johnson was paid weekly to groom him every 
morning with a currycomb and brush which had 
been bought especially for him. And, wonder 
of wonders, a carpenter came and built and 
painted a new kennel. It was placed near the 
windows of the spare bedroom, so near that 
Barney could keep glad watch over those two 
as he lay on the comfortable bed. 

I will not say that all this had been brought 
about at once or easily. It had come gradually. 
One with less grace and gentleness and quiet 
dignity, than Maysie’s mother had, could never 
have wrought the change. 

The farmer grumbled that Johnson had 
enough to do to ‘^’tend to the other critters” 
without making a fool of the dog. 

But Johnson liked to do it. It pleased the 
lady and the little girl. He could get it in by 
working a little faster; he was strong and not 
easily tired, and besides, the doing of it brought 
a comfortable addition to his small earnings. 

The Fault-finder said nothing that anyone 
heard, but there were times when he was furi- 
ous with rage. He really could do nothing, 
however, except to administer a sly kick to Bar- 
ney occasionally, just to remind him of the past, 
and to keep him from feeling above his business 
as a plain, ordinary farm dog. 

‘'Thinks he’s a prize poodle,” he grumbled 


44 


BARNEY. 


on the day when poor, surprised Barney was 
first made to understand that the new kennel 
was for him, and by dint of much coaxing from 
the little voice had really lain down and was try- 
ing to feel himself at home in such palatial sur- 
roundings. 

But Barney was as faithful to the old duties as 
ever. Not a vagrant creature could force its 
way upon the remotest corner of the farm with- 
out his seeming to know it at once. He was 
regular in bringing the cows. He was glad to 
have neighboring pigs or sheep get into the 
corn or the meadow, for it gave him a chance to 
prove his faithfulness. As to watching? Well, 
he had always been most loyal ; but aside from 
his bulldog grit, which was ever alert for a 
fight, there was now his whole heart in the 
w^atching. 

Whether this latter fact made him suspicious 
even of the neighbors when they went “’cross 
lots” on foot, and took some part of the old 
farm in on their journey, as they often did, I 
cannot tell. But he came to be much disturbed 
when it happened, and left whatever else he was 
doing to escort them to the very limits of the 
farm. 

Several times of late, as the day was near its 
close, he had been much disturbed at seeing a 
man whom he knew, and in whose past there was 
little to recommend him, according to Barney’s 
judgment, go lounging by. This man stopped 


BARNEY SCENTS MISCHIEF. 


45 


as if to rest wherever he could find a pretext for 
doing so, such as a grassy knoll or a shaded 
corner by the roadside. 

The third night he even entered the door- 
yard and, taking the tin dipper from its nail 
on the well-curb, lowered the bucket and brought 
up some water, of which he drank, greatly to 
Barney’s disgust. 

Barney walked around him, eyeing him 
well. He even went up and sniffed longingly 
of his legs, while the man from under his hat 
brim was looking slyly at the little creature 
with the sunshine in her hair and the bird’s voice 
in her throat, as she stood watching him from 
the porch. 

Barney had to go after the cows before the 
intruder had quite reached the end of the long 
stretch of road that crossed the farm. He was 
disturbed at this ; for he felt that the presence 
of this man boded evil to some one. 

Perhaps you will understand this feeling of 
Barney’s when you learn that it was the same 
person who came to the farm with those angry 
words the morning when the Cruel One chained 
him to the wheel of the heavy wagon, and there 
followed all the pain of undeserved punishment, 
and afterward all the bliss of unexpected deliv- 
erance and beautiful affection. 

When Barney returned with the cows he 
found Maysie perched upon the fence at the top 
of the pasture hill in front of the house. She 


46 


BARNEY. 


was waiting for him. As he came in sight she 
sprang down and ran to meet him. She was 
not afraid of the cattle with their slow tread and 
gentle eyes ; and, besides, Barney would not let 
them hurt her if they would. After the cows 
were safely through the red gate into the road, 
the two ran together, or rather he ran while she 
flew down the pasture hill, through the red gate, 
and across the road. 

Barney attended his charges into the barn- 
yard at the end of the lane, while the little 
one joined her mother, who sat on the rickety 
old porch over which the honeysuckle vines 
clambered. 

The next night Barney found, when he 
hunted deep into the wood after the mischievous 
white heifer, that another man whom he knew, 
and of whom he knew no good, was ^skulking 
behind the trees. His growl almost degenerated 
into a snarl; and he showed his sharp teeth 
threateningly. The intruder quickened his pace. 
After escorting him to the edge of the wood and 
making sure that he was taking himself off, Bar- 
ney turned to finish his task. Maysie was wait- 
ing for him again ; and they had another swift 
flight down the pleasant pasture hill and across 
the road. 

After this he had taken his plunge in the lake. 
(Barney never stopped now to grieve over his 
ugly face, nor over his strongly built, ungrace- 
ful frame. He was too happy. And if happi- 


BARNEY SCENTS MISCHIEF. 


47 


ness could change the visible as it does the 
invisible, then Barney would have had cause to 
wonder at his appearance, if he had thought to 
look for a reflection in the shining mirror of the 
lake.) But when he had taken his plunge that 
night, and had gone his rounds to make sure 
that everything was as it should be, and after 
he had curled up on his comfortable bed in the 
new kennel, Barney remembered the trouble- 
some incidents of the last few days. 

The remembrance troubled him so much that 
he growled, and the growl was long and savage. 
Maysie’s mother heard it, and a sense of se- 
curity stole into her heart. She clasped her 
child in her arms and smiled as she murmured, 
“ Good, faithful old Barney ! ” 


48 


BARNEY. 


VI. 

TROUBLE IN EARNEST. 

T he next night Barney was detained by un- 
ruly pigs, and had to start after the cows 
much later than usual. The white heifer was 
more than ordinarily vexing. It took a long 
hunt to find her, and Barney was not in a very 
angelic frame of mind when he came again upon 
the person of whom he had so poor an opinion, 
and for the second time he left his task in order 
to send him off the premises. He brought his 
teeth together with a warning snap as the man 
disappeared over the line fence. 

Then he went back to his task, feeling sure 
that there were persons in this world of ours who 
needed to be taught a lesson. And if the cir- 
cumstances would only lead up to it, Barney 
also felt himself entirely competent to teach at 
least two of those persons the necessary lesson. 

On the way down he met with more diffi- 
culty. The evil-mindedness of the unruly white 
heifer seemed to infect the whole herd. The 
most staid and sober ones among them wan- 
dered hither and thither, backward instead of 
forward, until poor Barney’s patience was so 
sorely tried that it required much exercise of 


TROUBLE IN EARNEST. 


49 


self-control to remember that cows must never 
be made to run when they were on the way 
home at milking time. 

At last they were down the hill, through the 
open red gate, across the road, on down the 
length of the lane, safely gathered in the great 
yard beside the long old barn. 

Barney was hot and thirsty. He began to lap 
some water from the wide trough with the moist 
and mossy sides. While he was drinking he 
heard the voice of the mother calling : ‘ ‘ May- 
sie! Maysie! Where are you, darling?’' 

It was the dearest name in all the world. He 
listened for the answer of the little voice, but 
it did not come. He forgot his thirst and ran 
to see about it. A vague sense of approaching 
trouble thrilled him, and as he ran he remem- 
bered that she had not met him at the top of the 
hill to come flying down beside him. 

The mother saw him. ‘‘Why, Barney,” 
she said. “Are you here? Then where is 
Maysie? She went to meet you.” 

Barney was troubled at once and showed it 
plainly. He did not wag his stump of a tail. 
He did not spring about, nor stretch his mouth 
in the customary dog smile. He only wrinkled 
his forehead and looked intently at the lady. 

“Where is the child? Maysie! Maysie, 
dear! ” she called. “ O, Barney, you must And 
her for me.” 

They went to look in the garden, where was 


50 


BARNEY. 


the little bed of posies that the child tended lov- 
ingly ; and into the shop, where was the hen’s 
nest in which she had taken deep interest. But 
the little figure was nowhere to be seen. Bar- 
ney pricked up what remained of his ears and 
listened in every direction. He heard the noise 
of the pigs at the trough, of the chickens and 
turkeys beyond the barn. His quick ear caught 
the rattle of an old wagon away off on the turn- 
pike. Even the chirping good-night of the 
young birds, as they settled themselves with 
much nestling under brooding wings in the 
cherry tree, reached him. But the little voice 
with the birdlike notes in it was still. He held 
his head high and sniffed the air. This did 
not satisfy. He lowered it, and ran here and 
there with his nose to the ground. Suddenly 
he paused and, lifting one foreleg, stood for a 
brief moment as if in intense thought. Then he 
leaped the fence and hastened to the little knoll 
under the thorn tree. It was just out of sight 
from the house, hidden by a row of currant 
bushes and cherry trees that fringed the lane. 

The grass was freshly crushed ! And it had 
been crushed by the one whom Barney had so 
mistrusted on the days just passed. He knew 
it by that acute sense which goes so far beyond 
our feebler one. He had found a clew! He 
threw back his head and gave a cry that was 
neither bark nor howl, but which seemed made 
up of both. Maysie’s mother heard it with a 


TROUBLE IN EARNEST. 


51 


shudder. It sounded to her alarmed hearing 
like a challenge. It was the challenge of a brave 
and troubled heart. 

Barney shot up the pasture hill like some 
terrible missile of war, across the long stretch 
beyond and into the wood again. He darted 
hither and thither, stopping occasionally to re- 
peat his call and to listen for an answer. But 
nothing that satisfied came to his sharpened 
hearing. There was the monotonous chirrup of 
the tree toads, and from the open fields came 
the song of the locusts. But Barney was not 
listening for these. 

Down at the farmhouse there was a strange 
commotion. The grandmother had lighted a 
lantern and was peering into all the places 
where the little one had never gone and never 
thought of going. Aunt Polly was rummaging 
garret and cellar. The Fault-finder contented 
himself with grumbling that the young one was 
asleep somewhere, and would make her hiding 
place known quickly enough when she waked 
up in the morning. 

Johnson only waited to finish milking the first 
cow. Then, seeing that the child was not 
found, he left his work in high disregard of 
what might be the consequence and joined in 
the search. He a^sked the distracted mother 
where the child was last seen, and when. Then 
he asked what Barney had done. 


52 


BARNEY. 


Upon learning these he ran in search of the 
dog. For Johnson was one of those who recog- 
nize that the reason of the animals who do not 
talk is often clearer than that of those who do. 

As he climbed the hill he heard the sorrowful, 
challenging cry of the dog ringing from out the 
deepest shadows of the wood. He whistled a 
shrill response. 

The two were soon in company. Both were 
somewhat bewildered. There was that in Bar- 
ney’s face and actions which Johnson could not 
understand. The dog tried earnestly, in an 
eager, questioning way, to make his plans known. 

‘‘ What is it, ole feller? ” Johnson asked, 
kindly. “You’ve got hold of something, I 
know. How I wish you could talk ! ” 

Barney looked into his face an instant, then, 
feeling that he was trusted, he gave a hoarse howl 
and started off to the side of the wood, looking 
back often to make sure that he was followed. 
He reached the line fence, seemed for a moment 
uncertain, then cleared it with a bound and 
started on at a pace so rapid that Johnson had 
to run to keep up with him. 

It was now quite dark, but the flash of four 
white legs and the occasional fiery gleam of eyes, 
looking back to make sure that they were being 
followed, were beacon lights to Johnson. They 
were on another farm. Barney forgot his own 
opinion of trespassers, and ran steadily on with 
Johnson at his heels. 




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“ BARNEY TURNED INTO THE DEEP SHADOW 


99 






TROUBLE IN EARNEST. 


5S 


The order of their going was usually reversed, 
but now Johnson’s bewilderment leaned upon 
the steady purpose of his four-footed friend. 

Where are you going, Barney? ” he asked, 
finally, with shortened breath, as he realized 
that the dog was not following a trail, but was 
making directly for a particular point. 

Barney turned toward him with a faint echo of 
the cry that was half grief, half rage, and has- 
tened on. 

They came out into the road near the dusky, 
lonesome hollow where stood the miserable abode 
of Huldah Green. The dog slackened his pace 
to listen. Everything was still, but he did not 
move. Soon there reached them the rattle of a 
nearing wagon. 

Barney turned into the deep shadow of a fence 
corner, and Johnson, taking the hint, slid behind 
an elm tree standing near. The wagon halted 
before the tumble-down barn on the opposite 
side of the road. Two men got out, and, with- 
out a word, one of them opened the door and 
stood as if waiting for something which his com- 
panion was to do. The other looked carefully 
up and down the road and toward the house. 
He seemed to listen for a moment; then he 
pulled an old blanket off from something in the 
back of the wagon and dropped it on the ground. 
He listened again before he drew toward him, 
with slow and careful movement, a large bag 
like those used in the hopyards. 


56 


BARNEY. 


Barney was trembling from head to feet. His 
breath came hard and fast. 

Johnson could not understand what it was that 
so stirred the dog. But he had to respect it. 
Barney was not of the kind to get into such a 
state of excitement without cause. Still, even 
after taking into account the evident caution of 
the two men, Johnson could see nothing which 
need detain himself and Barney in their search 
for the child. 

The Greens were known through all the coun- 
try around as petty pilferers. They had probably 
been foraging for supplies of some kind. The 
farmers often threatened them, but no one ever 
seriously thought of carrying out his threats. 
The law was too remote a thing, and there was 
too much unwinding of red tape for the farmers 
to take it up. Besides that, the lawyer’s fees 
would amount to more than the pilferings. So 
what would be the advantage ? 

Johnson felt that Barney was making ready 
for a spring. He reached down and touched 
him with a detaining hand ; but drew suddenly 
back as a gleam of white teeth and fires from 
maddened eyeballs flashed upon him. There 
had come a time, even in the humble life of 
Barney, when he was not to be meddled with. 
Johnson thought of a terrible possibility. The 
dog might be going mad ! 

A slight sound that was between a sob and a 
gurgle reached their ears. It had not ceased 


TROUBLE IN EARNEST. 


57 


when Barney, with a demoniac howl of venge- 
ance, rushed from his hiding place, sprang upon 
the man at the wagon, and bore him to the 
ground with ragings that were frightful to hear. 

Johnson read the whole story in a flash. He 
ran to the other man and with an angry blow 
felled him to the ground. He bent down and 
beat him unmercifully. Then he turned to the 
bag and with gentle hands drew it open. In 
the faint light his pitying eyes beheld a ghostly 
little face. The dear little mouth was crowded 
with rags, and the slender wrists, which had 
never done harm to anyone, were tied. 

‘‘ O, you little one! Johnson said over and 
over in a thick voice, as he plucked the rags from 
the dear little mouth and freed the tiny hands. 

Then, as a groan came from the man whom 
Barney had felled, he cried out, ‘‘ That's right, 
Barney. Kill him ! kill him ! " 

An answering snarl came from between the 
dog’s clenched teeth. He shook the prostrate 
wretch with all his might. 

Johnson gathered the limp little flgure ten- 
derly in his arms. As he went toward the house 
he met Huldah. She was shaking with fear. 

‘‘ You’d better come back with me,” he said; 
and she turned and followed him into the house. 
While she applied such simple restoratives as 
were at her poor command, he told the story in 
few words and saw her plain, careworn face grow 
white and stony. 


58 


BARNEY. 


Her own babies safe, but another woman 
with her heart breaking ! 

Barney came in and stood beside them. There 
was blood upon him. 

The child returned to a terrified conscious- 
ness and sobbed upon Huldah’s breast. 

When Barney knew that his idol was safe his 
joy knew no bounds. He jumped about her; 
he whined, he barked; he crouched at her 
feet and cried plaintively ; he caressed her 
hands, her face, her shoes, any part of her gown 
that he could get at; he tangled his nose in 
the gold of her hair ; he raised his head high 
and gave forth peal after peal of victory. She 
was found! He had found her! The world, 
which had been so dark and empty before, be- 
came bright and joyous. It seemed as though 
nothing could ever trouble him again. Her life 
was so sweet to him that it would have been 
easy even to die for her. 

Then Huldah, clasping the child close, let 
Johnson go out to look after the two who had 
done this deed. 

One body lay where the dog had left it, the 
other man had fled. 

A carriage drove by. Johnson called, and the 
doctor, a man beloved by all the people around, 
came to his help. The story was told again. 
Together they lifted the body and carried it into 
the house. 

Zek’l Green was not dead, although nearly so 


TROUBLE IN EARNEST. 


59 


with terror and loss of blood. A few drops of 
some gentle cordial were administered to Maysie. 
Johnson was bidden by the doctor to take her 
home in his own carriage, and then to return, 
while he remained to attend the wounded man. 

Barney ran wildly about the carriage. Now 
he was close at the ^ 

horses' heels, now 
at their heads, bark- 
ing sharply to en- 
courage speed. 

It was not long 
before they reached 
the farmhouse. 

The distracted 
mother clasped her 
child to her heart 
and listened with 
tears to the story 
of Barney’s brave 
rescue of her. 

Maysie could not 
remember much 
about it. Barney 
and the cows were 
late in coming. So 
she went a long way over the hill to find him. 
Suddenly she felt a hand over her mouth, and 
somebody caught her up and ran and ran ; and 
she didn’t know anything more until Barney put 
his nose in her face and was so glad to see her. 



BARNEY LAID ALL THE BLAME UPON 
THE TROUBLESOME WHITE HEIFER.” 


6o 


BARNEY. 


As for Barney? He laid the whole blame upon 
the shoulders of the white heifer. If she had 
not led him such a chase through the wood, and 
afterward, by her mischievous spirit so stirred 
the whole herd into obstinacy, he would have 
been down in time to grapple with the child- 
thief. He took occasion the next day to slip into 
the pasture and give her such a lesson in running 
— it was beyond sight of those in the farmhouse, 
and the others were busy at the farthest corner 
of the farm — as to inspire her ever after with a 
proper sense of his dignity and authority. 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


6l 


VII. 

ANOTHER CHANGE. 

I T was weeks before Zek’l Green was out of 
danger. As for 'Lisher, he was not seen 
again by any in the neighborhood. 

The country folk were in great fury at first 
over the outrage. State prison was too good a 
place for the rogues. More than one mother 
hugged her little ones close and almost rejoiced 
in poverty if riches must bring such peril. 

But as the weeks went by, and Zek’hs miser- 
able life hovered so near the black doorway of 
death, Huldah's anxious, careworn face began 
to move their hearts into pity. Then, too, the 
farmwork crowded. It was one thing to talk ; 
it was quite another thing to go to town and 
‘‘ tackle ” the courts. 

When they approached her, Mrs. Bolton said 
that the punishment measured out by Johnson 
and his four-footed fellow had been severe ; that 
the same crime would never be attempted again 
by the men. She was not vindictive. Punish- 
ment as a corrective, to be used for the good of 
the evil-doer, was her idea of justice ; but pun- 
ishment given merely to satisfy a spirit of re- 
venge never entered her thought. And then 


62 


BARNEY. 


she was very thankful at having found her child. 
So she did many kind things for Huldah during 
those trying weeks. 

The Fault-finder, and a few others, could not 
understand such gentleness of heart. The mat- 
ter was finally taken out of their hands. One 
evening, when Huldah had gone to a neighbor’s 
on an errand, the one who had made her home 
miserable by his presence went out of it and 
never troubled her again. 

You can see by all this how, in one way or 
another, Mrs. Bolton and her little daughter 
were fated to furnish an unfailing topic for con- 
versation. People speculated upon the outcome 
of the theft if the dog had not brought so sudden 
a crisis. Would the men have gotten money for 
the return of the child? Would the little girl 
have lived through the shock ? For it was plainly 
to be seen that she was not strong ; that more 
spirit than body went to the making up of her 
tender life. And above and beyond all they 
wondered how it was that the dog should have 
gone so directly to the right place, and that with- 
out scenting a trail. 

So it came to pass that Barney’s name was 
linked with those other names in a most intimate 
fashion. From being a plain, everyday bull- 
dog, with nothing in particular to recommend 
him, he became a sort of dog hero. 

Barnabas, the ‘‘hand” who had picked him 
up three years before, when the puppy legs had 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


63 


failed and the ptippy life had almost gone out, 
heard of this heroism, away off in his work on 
another farm, on the border of another township ; 
and upon hearing it he felt at once an ease of 
conscience as to the stolen milk upon which he 
had nursed the ungainly little creature back into 
life. 

Barney was talked about along with the lions 
and tigers in the traveling menagerie, and the 

painters'’ in the woods when the country was 
new, and the elephant who remembered, years 
afterward, to punish the man who gave him to- 
bacco instead of the lump of sugar first offered. 

This latter comparison came after a little, 
when Johnson, seeing that the dog was taken so 
much notice of, thought it no harm to tell, pri- 
vately, the story of the undeserved and brutal 
whipping, and how Maysie had flung herself on 
the floor beside him and had been hurt while 
saving him. 

Johnson did not forget to add that Zek'l Green 
was the ‘‘identical chap what told the lie and 
brought about that whipping." 

One of the listeners did not hear the sequel to 
the story. It was a woman more poetical than 
the rest. She had an earnest face and wistful 
eyes. And as her thought dwelt upon the action 
she said softly, ‘ ‘ The delicate child had so much 
of Christ's spirit that, in order to save, she was 
willing to go down into the suffering." 

• No one wondered any more that the dog 


64 


BARNEY. 


looked upon the child as his saviour, and wor- 
shiped her with such utter self-forgetfulness and 
fond devotion as we wiser mortals rarely give to 
the Supreme One, our Saviour. 

But if Maysie had saved the dog, the dog had 
in his turn saved Maysie. The passers-by 
loved to catch sight of the two together. Some- 
times they were on the little porch that was so 
overrun with honeysuckle, sometimes they were 
by the little swing under the old apple tree, and 
sometimes they were running down the pasture 
hill, Barney minus any superfluous inch of 
flopping ears or swinging tail, but Maysie a 
fluttering mass of golden tresses and white robes 
which glinted in the sunlight. 

Then there was the collar that came by ex- 
press and had been locked about Barney’s neck. 
It was genuine solid silver, and his name was 
engraved upon it, along with a pretty line about 
his bravery and faithfulness. The people liked 
to catch sight of him with the glint of silver 
about his neck. They liked to call him to them 
and look at the collar and read the inscription. 

Barney was surprised at this change in the 
manner of people toward him. He thought 
about it, sometimes, when he trotted patiently 
after the cows — for he had no thought of shirk- 
ing his old duties — and, sometimes, when he 
was alone, he laid down and dropped his nose 
in the grass and wondered about it. And through 
all his thoughts there flitted a gentle presence 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


65 


that seemed to beckon him on into a still sweeter 
and fairer life. He was glad that he went off 
after the beautiful butterfly that day in his 
puppy hood, and he was glad that during these 
later days something still more radiant had flown 
into his path. 

The Fault-finder w as most unhappy. He said 
that times were getting queer ‘‘when a hull 
family got to be of no ’count ’longside of a low- 
down dog.” Still, when Mrs. Bolton wanted to 
buy Barney he objected strongly. 

“ It wa’n’t no small job to get a dog well 
broke in to the ways of a farm,” he told her. 

The purchase hung in the balance for many 
days. Mrs. Bolton was too wise to press it, or to 
say what she really believed — that if the two 
were finally separated the dog’s life would not 
last very long. If the purchaser had been pos- 
sessed of less patience or gentle dignity the 
matter would not have been brought about. 

Finally, after giving what she knew to be an 
exorbitant price, Mrs. Bolton, as a matter of 
business, requested a bill of sale. This she 
gave to Maysie, who wrapped it in a piece of 
silk paper, tucked it into her bosom, and ran in 
search of Barney. When she had found him, 
they sat down together under the old apple tree. 
Maysie solemnly unfolded the paper and held it 
under his nose. 

Barney smelled the length and breadth of it, 
and then, not knowing what else to do, swal- 


66 


BARNEY. 


lowed several times in a sympathetic manner, 
and looked into the face of his little mistress for 
further enlightenment. 

Maysie folded the paper and wrapped it care- 
fully. It was a piece of ruled foolscap. The 
ink upon it was pale and the pen with which it 
was written had ‘‘sputtered” in the writing. 
But it was a very precious piece of paper to 
Maysie. So she tucked it back inside the neck 
of her gown. 

Then she took hold of Barney’s cheeks with 
both little hands, and, holding her face close to 
his, said, “ I don’t believe you understand it one 
bit. But you and I belong to each other. No- 
body in the whole great big world can ever 
hurt you now — nobody but Maysie, and you’ll 
never be afraid of Maysie, will you?” 

With his remnant of a tail Barney made a 
vigorous denial of harboring fear in that direc- 
tion. 

‘ ‘ And I don’t want any dog except my own 
dear, good, best Barney. Don’t you really like 
it, Barney? Isn’t it nice?” 

She looked into his honest eyes for a moment, 
then planted a kiss on his head. Barney noticed 
that it fell upon the very spot over the left eye 
which had so troubled him. He was greatly 
disappointed, when taking his plunge in the lake 
that night, to see that the patch of brindle was 
still in its place. He thought that the kiss must 
have taken it away and made his face all white 



“ LOOKED INTO THE FACE OF HIS LITTLE MISTRESS FOR 
FURTHER ENLIGHTENMENT.” 






ANOTHER CHANGE. 69 

and fair. He was sure that he had felt it going 
when the little lips touched his forehead. 

Well, perhaps she did not mind. And if she 
did not mind, why, then Barney himself would 
try and not mind. 

6 


70 


BARNEY, 


VIII. 

PICTURES AND PLANS. 

T he summer flowers and the summer fra- 
grance wandered away one day hand in 
hand. Sturdier blossoms shone out in new 
places. The grapes began to dress themselves 
out in royal purple, and the gnarled trees in 
the orchard grew fine with their fruitage of 
green and russet and ruddy crimson. Still the 
lady and the little girl lingered at the old farm. 
After the first few days of their visit Mrs. Bol- 
ton had insisted upon paying for their board, 
and also for the use of the spare bedroom. 

Thus, without knowing it, she had made her 
stay of real interest to the members of the house- 
hold. They had enough and more. Life might 
have been made a blessing to themselves and to 
others, but, unfortunately, the dollar had become 
almighty for them. 

So they did not like to hear her speak of going. 
It was no trouble to have the two about. Many 
helpful things were done so quietly that no one 
fully realized that they had been done, and many 
comfortable things were brought about in a sur- 
prisingly easy fashion. 

Among other of these things the grandmother's 


PICTURES AND PLANS. 


71 


caps were now so daintily made, so free from 
starch, that she could wear them without feeling 
in the least ‘‘perked up.'’ And Aunt Polly 
found soft things fastened into the necks and 
wrists of her best gowns that made them look 
“real dressy.” 

It was not strange that they loved to have her 
with them, for when they questioned she told 
them of life in another clime, and their interest 
grew, while their thoughts flew into a wider 
fleld. 

It was not strange that the gentle Southerner 
found their land attractive ; for the little girl, 
who was her whole life, now that the Eagle had 
flown to his heavenly eyrie, was growing stronger 
with every month. They had been ordered into 
a colder climate on account of the child, and now 
letters from the physician at home advised a stay 
during the cold season. Probably another win- 
ter and summer would make the little one well 
and strong. 

They had no kinsfolk to attract them to the 
South. The Eagle had met this gentle woman 
in the flrst shadow of a great grief. Her whole 
family had been swept away by the fever scourge. 
Thus he became her all. Then the child came 
as an added blessing. Now, though he had been 
taken, the child was left, and for her the mother- 
heart lived and dreamed beautiful dreams. 

The little one had never seen the snow. She 
had queried about it, and in the twilight hour 


72 


BARNEY. 


when the child heart waits for stories of the 
strange, she grew more childlike than was her 
wont, and wove sweet fancies about it and re- 
told them to the ear that listened. 

The snow was something soft and white, yet 
capable of becoming hard and stained. It was cold 
as ice, but it came and spread itself out like a great 
blanket over the tree roots to keep them alive, 
over the grasses to keep them warm, and it saved 
the rose bushes and the great scraggy lilac trees 
from freezing to death. It was so delicate that 
you could blow it with your breath, but it became 
so solid that the iron hoofs of horses could not 
force their way down through it to strike the 
ground. It came through the air like feathers 
floating here and there, but it sometimes lay so 
heavily upon the great trees as to break their 
branches. It danced about like the spray, but 
formed itself sometimes into great drifts that 
the sun could not melt in many days. 

And then it seemed as if made especially for 
the children, because it could be rolled into balls 
for playing, and it made smooth sliding places 
for them on the banks. It covered the hills, 
too, so that they could ride down them upon 
little wagons, which were not little wagons, but 
were called sleds, because long, slender, curved 
sticks at the side made them to slide over the 
snow as smoothly as wheels can roll over the 
best and smoothest of roadways. 

And the people were so glad to have it come. 


PICTURES AND PLANS. 


73 


and the riding over it in these sleds, or sleighs, 
as they were sometimes called, was so pleasant 
that they fastened silver bells to the horses, in 
order that their merry tinkle might remind the 
other people, who were busy in the houses or the 
shops, that the snow was again upon the earth. 

Yes, Maysie wanted to see the snow. She 
wanted to stay until it came. Then she would 
have to be wrapped in furs, and her tiny hands 
must have warm mittens, made from the wool 
of lambs, upon them, and her head must go into 
a brightly colored hood, so that its two ears 
would not tingle when Jack Frost — who was king 
of the snow, and went flying everywhere, though 
he could not be seen — came to pinch them. 
Her nose must learn to be brave, for Maysie 
could not breathe if her nose were covered, but 
it would get to be a very funny little red nose if 
she were to stay out too long in the cold. 

And Barney — wouldn’t Barney need a woolen 
cap and some mittens — four queer little mittens 
— and a coat of fur, too ? Then wasn’t it kind 
in God to cover the dog folk, who had no money 
for these things, with such warm, thick hair — hair 
that grows thick when the winter comes and 
thinner when it goes away ? 

O, indeed ! Maysie must stay to see the white 
flakes Ailing all the air, and the white blanket 
spreading itself over all the earth, and the deli- 
cate pictures of trees and flowers and rivers and 
mountains, which the frost fairies love to paint. 


74 


BARNEY. 


all in purest white upon the window panes. She 
must stay to be lulled to sleep at night by the 
merry bells of the sleighs, and to waken in the 
morning to have her eyes dazzled with the dia- 
monds which the sunshine sprinkles over every- 
thing in winter. She must send to the town for 
a sled upon which to ride down the pasture hill 
while Barney bounded beside her. She must 
stay to pelt him with soft balls and watch him 
jump to catch them. She must have a pair of 
silver-tipped shoes, called skates, and learn to 
glide over the ice, which always formed in a very 
big cake — as big as the broad old kitchen itself — 
upon the very edge of the meadow, only a little 
way from the house. 

Only to think of walking and sliding and 
dancing upon little steel rims no wider than her 
tiniest finger! There could be no thought of 
going before all these pleasures came. Why, to 
be sure, she must stay. 

So it was settled. 

And while the child talked on in the simpler 
language of poetry the heart of the mother 
seemed to hear the music of another voice, a 
voice long silent. 

Yes, it was really settled. And Barney was 
glad as glad could be at anything that made her 
glad. He sat before her and listened to the 
pretty plans, every one of which included him, 
and winked and blinked at the dazzling pictures 
spread out before him. 


PICTURES AND PLANS. 


75 


He had heard them talk about going away and 
somehow, though he remembered fondly that 
day under the crooked old apple tree when May- 
sie showed the precious bit of paper to him, he 
could not hear them speak of this thing without 
feeling the old pain come back in that strange 
thing they call the heart, which was tucked away 
under the brindle upon his breast. 

He was not sure that their going did not mean 
his staying. 

He remembered too clearly the times when 
the old democrat had gone on its rattling way 
out of sight and out of hearing, while he had 
been sent back into the lonesome stillness of 
the fields. It might be so this time. It prob- 
ably would. They would take her away out of 
his sight and they would send him back ; and 
when at night he heard the rattle of the old 
democrat, and went out to the turnpike corner to 
meet it, he should find it empty of the presence 
that made his paradise. How could it be other- 
wise, though Maysie herself wanted him? 

But if she wanted him^ if she really called him 
to come — then, though the cruel voice and all 
other voices bade him, with blows, to stay, he 
would not do it. Pain and death might stand in 
the way, but they could not hinder. She must 
not call and receive no answer. She must never 
look for him and not find him beside her ! 


76 


BARNEY. 


IX. 

BARNEY IMMORTALIZED. 

T he winter proved to be as bright as the 
little girl’s brightest dreams. 

She found that the snow was not like feathers, 
neither was it like wool. It was unlike any- 
thing of which she had ever thought or ever 
could have thought. It could not be described. 
Neither poet nor painter could picture it. 

She reveled in its beauty, this child of the 
North as well as of the South, while wading 
through the crystal depths and bounding over 
the shining surface. The impress of her little 
feet, along with the impress of four other faith- 
ful feet, led out in many paths from the door of 
the farmhouse. 

With deft hands she molded a long row of 
queer figures out of the pliable whiteness — fig- 
ures of men and women and dolls — figures 
which caused a smile to come upon the faces of 
the passers-by, that anything so purely childlike 
could grow out of life upon the old farm. 

Once she made a figure of Barney. Many days 
passed, and still this latter was not finished at 
all to the little maiden’s liking. Barney watched 
the operation while Maysie worked and talked 


BARNEY IMMORTALIZED. 


77 


to him about it. He cocked his head first upon 
one side and then the other in order to get a 
better view. Once he stood patiently for many 
minutes exactly as she had placed him. But 
this did not seem to help her as much as had 
been hoped. She called him to come away. 
She knew better how he looked when she could 
not see him. 

This was not intended to be uncomplimentary. 
Barney was not grieved at it. He was a sensible 
dog. He went close up to the little lady and 
was much happier than he had been while stand- 
ing stiffly at a distance to be gazed at critically. 

He was really sorry that she had undertaken 
this piece of work. There were hundreds of 
other things that would not only have been 
handsomer, but much easier, such as birds and 
fishes and lambs. He wondered how she came 
to think of it in the first place, and, having 
thought of it, why she should care so much 
about doing it. The men and women and dolls 
were well enough, but this ! 

For Barney did not know that with her, as 
with the first artist who ever wrought, love, 
pure and simple, was the moving force. 

It was so cold that no dog in his senses would 
think of a plunge in the lake, so Barney had not 
seen how he looked for a long time. But 
judging from the statue his little mistress was 
setting up his appearance had not improved. 
He felt while looking at it, as he did that even- 


78 


BARNEY. 


ing when the first knowledge of his hopeless ugli- 
ness broke upon his senses so overwhelmingly 
as to leave him nothing to do but to back up and 
sit down upon the bank until he could recover 
enough strength of mind to go on with life. 

He tried to call her attention to other things. 
But Maysie was persistent. He barked and 
ran, tossing the snow about with nose and paws; 
but though he might win her away for a little 
romp she was sure to return. 

And Barney had to sit solemnly by and be 
immortalized. 

However, there was one thing for which he 
could be grateful; there was no brindled snow 
with which that disreputable patch over the left 
eye could be added. Because of that he will- 
ingly overlooked the defects which so troubled 
his little mistress. 

Still, the figure might have been worse. It 
had four legs, a head with no ears to speak of, 
and a mite of a tail. This latter disturbed the 
little sculptor a good deal by its habit of drop- 
ping off unexpectedly, just at the moment when 
some member of the hoUwSehold was standing in 
judgment upon the likeness. 

And all the time a sturdier strength flowed 
into the childish veins and a richer color came 
into her cheeks. She was well. It was enough 
for the mother. She was happy. That' was 
enough for Barney. 


BARNEY AS COMFORTER. 


79 


X. 


BARNEY AS COMFORTER. 

ITH the coming of spring Mrs. Bolton 



began to make other plans. They would 


go to the mountains and to the sea, where they 
could breathe still stronger draughts of bracing 
Northern air. 

Barney was not left in doubt this time. His 
going was talked about quite freely. And when 
they were sitting under the old apple tree one 
day, Maysie had put one arm about his neck and 
told him all about it. 

Somebody else was going too. This some- 
body was Johnson. Mrs. Bolton had deter- 
mined this ever since that night when the young 
man, with his face aglow, had brought her child 
safely back out of the peril and darkness. He 
was going so as to be ready to do any necessary 
thing for the travelers — Barney included. 

In the autumn, when they returned to their 
Southern home, Johnson’s Northern vigor and 
skill were to be set in control of those Southern 
acres. Every plan was perfect. Johnson’s 
trunk was packed. One of his new suits, plain, 
neat-fitting, and serviceable, which Mrs. Bolton, 
with womanly thoughtfulness, had counseled him 


8o 


BARNEY. 


to order, was laid out in state upon the single 
chair granted to his little room. He thought of 
the thousand dollars this quiet woman had given 
him ; he looked at the trunk, the new suit, 
and then on out through the window, beyond 
the roof of the weather-beaten old woodshed 
stretching beneath. His honest heart swelled 
with thoughts of all that he would do to bring 
the big plantation up to his Northern idea of 
thrifty husbandry. 

Barney and Maysie had visited all their old 
tramping places for the last time. The cows 
had been brought once more from the pasture 
and driven safely, the white heifer and all, into 
the big yard in front of the old barn, under 
whose roof the sweet-scented hay was yearly 
gathered and under whose eaves the long- 
winged swallows built nests for their young. 

The coming morning was fixed upon for the 
departure of these four — Mrs. Bolton, Maysie, 
Johnson, and brindled Barney. They went to 
sleep with glad hearts and joyous expectations. 

But the morning brought other things than 
those which had been planned ; for, at some 
hour during that night, the spirit of Maysie’s 
mother had gone out never to return. 

Whether the weakness had come from over- 
excitement, added to the long rides to town, or 
whether, after the unaccustomed cold of winter, 
the warmth and moisture of spring had sapped 
her strength, no one knew; but an old heart af- 


BARNEY AS COMFORTER. 


fection, of which she had never thought seri- 
ously, had caused that organ to cease its beating. 
And when Maysie awoke to the light of another 
day she was motherless. 

No one had heard the gentle voice complain, 
but they all remembered now that her face had 
been growing whiter and her eyes more lustrous 
with each succeeding day. Maysie had noticed 
it. At the evening hour she had lain her rosy 
cheek tenderly, with fond caresses, against the 
white one, and had begged of her mother to go 
out and play with Barney, so as to get brown 
and rosy too. 

There is no need to dwell upon the days im- 
mediately following. In them the Fault-finder 
shone out with borrowed luster. The dead 
woman had no one near of kin. The child had 
been left alone. What was more natural than 
she should become the child of his care. He 
stepped into the breach and decided matters 
with a promptness and authority that must, 
sometimes when he was quite, quite alone, have 
surprised even his unsensitive nature. 

A grave was made in the green cemetery 
beside the white meeting house. The turf 
was covered over it, and the world was poorer 
because a womanly woman had gone away 
from it. 

The long procession of buggies and democrat 
wagons, in which were sober-faced, wondering 
neighbors, returned to the faded farmhouse that 


82 


BARNEY. 


stood SO placidly while the searching sunlight 
fell upon its trimmings of rusty white. 

Barney had walked, unhindered and unheeded, 
beneath the ‘‘covered buggy'' that carried the 
Fault-finder and the little girl. 

Maysie had not leaned upon the arm that was 
offered. She had not touched his hand nor an- 
swered him a word during all that long, slow 
ride. She sat with her big eyes fixed upon some 
point in the space before her, and had not no- 
ticed anything of all the things that had been 
said or done. When they reached the house 
again she went into the spare bedroom and 
threw herself at the foot of her mother's chair, 
and would not be prevailed upon to arise nor to 
be comforted with words or with food. 

Night came on. 

Barney had waited, but she had not come to him. 

Mrs. Bolton, in respect to the wishes of the 
household, had not permitted Maysie to bring 
her dog indoors, though the little girl had often 
told him, indignantly, of her beautiful home in 
the South, and that not a carpet nor a rug in it 
would be too good for him to walk over, that 
not a couch nor a divan there would be too fine 
for him to lie upon, whether in the long rooms 
or out upon the broad veranda. Barney crossed 
his paws and looked into her face with wonder- 
ing awe as she pictured this magnificence. He 
tried to believe it possible that such as he could 
be more than welcome to its use. 


BARNEY AS COMFORTER. 


83 


He had not minded much until to-night that 
they would not let him enter here. He had 
grown used to remaining outside, but now his 
heart stirred with a longing to see her that 
would not be satisfied. In some way it must be 
accomplished. 

He went around under the window of her 
room and listened. He could hear them speak- 
ing to her, coming in one by one, and calling 
her name. He listened intently, but there was 
no answer. 

She had not called, but something told him 
that he was wanted. 

With a bound he caught the narrow ledge of 
the window. A quick glance showed him the 
little figure flung despairingly upon the floor. 
He took his station beside her and would not let 
them touch her with so much as a finger’s weight. 
Later, heartbroken at her silent grief, he crouched 
beside her and cried softly. Then one little arm 
slid out and found its way around his neck, and 
the little face pressed itself against his brindled 
coat, while Maysie sobbed as if she could never 
cease. 


84 


BARNEY. 


XL 

CHANGED FORTUNES. 

A fter a few weeks an unconquerable long- 
ing to go to her own home took possession 
of this little girl, in whose manner and speech 
were those gentler graces inherited by the dwell- 
ers in warmer climes, and whose sturdy love of 
justice and fair dealing would have satisfied the 
strictest Puritan who ever set foot upon Plym- 
outh Rock. 

She told this longing to Barney first, then to 
the others. Barney was more than willing to 
gratify her. The others gave no encouragement. 

The Fault-finder, in his new role of guardian, 
felt himself of too much importance to let the 
prize slip through his fingers. After the death 
he engaged a lawyer to write to an address 
which he had found by searching through Mrs. 
Bolton’s private papers. The lawyer repre- 
sented Job Bolton as a worthy man, and the 
little girl’s next of kin; then added that the 
mother and her child had been members of his 
family for the year past, and asked that certain 
papers be made over and certain rights be 
vested in him. 

The Southern lawyer replied with a sharp let- 


CHANGED FORTUNES. 


85 


ter of inquiry, which was answered by one 
equally sharp from the Northern lawyer. Then 
certain funds were placed at the disposal of the 
self-appointed guardian, and matters went on 
for a little. 

It was the spring of 1893. Fear and dis- 
trust pervaded the world of commerce. One fac- 
tory after another shut down. Bank after bank 
closed its doors. Stocks, that a few months be- 
fore could not be purchased, suddenly sank 
lower and lower in value. The weeks went by. 
Crash after crash threatened a panic such as the 
country had never seen. Because of this it is 
not hard to feel that Mr. Montstuart, upon 
learning that the little girl was in the home of 
her nearest relatives, who were ‘‘worthy'' 
people, may perhaps be pardoned if, with the 
falling of fortunes all about him, and the totter- 
ing of his own, he failed for a little time to look 
more carefully after his little client. 

“ That Northern farmer doesn't seem to dream 
of a will," he said to the physician who called at 
his office to consult about the matter. “Mrs. 
Bolton's will is in my safe. I am appointed 
guardian of the child and sole administrator of 
the estate. After a little, I shall go up and en- 
lighten him and bring the little girl home. 
Mrs. Montstuart is giving me no peace, and my 
own little daughter — they are about the same 
age, you know — is very impatient." 

But “ after a little," instead of going, he wrote 


86 


BARNEY. 


to the North that one bank which had made 
heavy investments for Mrs. Bolton had sus- 
pended payment. Again, that certain stocks 
were worthless; and still again, that, on account 
of depreciated values, the income from the old 
plantation was not more than should be used 
upon it. 

Possibly you can appreciate the effect of all 
this upon the Fault-finder. His narrow soul be- 
came narrower with each straitening circum- 
stance. He did not know the amount of the 
estate, and so descended to such petty economies 
with Maysie as were almost past belief. 

The family gathered in long conferences at 
night after she had gone to bed. Various plans 
were discussed and certain changes were de- 
cided upon. 

Maysie came to feel that, for some reason, she 
was the subject of unnumbered discussions. 
When, at last, her losses in property were told 
over with due solemnity, her child’s heart was 
ready to believe that she and Barney had be- 
come paupers, quite. It impressed her so seri- 
ously that it was sometime before she could 
gather courage to talk the matter over with her 
only friend. Yet there came with the first of 
each month the same sum that Mrs. Bolton had 
paid for herself and the little girl. To be sure, 
there was now only one ; ‘ ‘ but the care of a 
child is worth something, you know, and ’d orter 
be paid fur.” 


CHANGED FORTUNES. 87 

Huldah Green was told that her services as 
laundress would be needed no longer. 

When the Fault-finder returned from town one 
afternoon he brought a large bundle into the 
kitchen. He threw it upon the table with orders 
to Aunt Polly to “ get them things up, quick!'' 

Maysie was present when the parcel was 
opened. There was nothing in it to interest 
her. It contained yards of coarse, unbleached 
cotton cloth, with other yards of dark domestic 
ginghams. The ginghams were of varying pat- 
terns and most inharmonious colors. The par- 
cel also contained a stout pair of ‘‘stogies" for 
somebody's small feet. 

Aunt Polly cut and sewed vigorously for sev- 
eral days. Then, one night, as Maysie was 
going to bed, she called to her and held out an 
armful of the garments upon which she had 
worked so faithfully. In her hand were the 
small-sized “stogies." 

Maysie opened her eyes very wide, but held 
out her arms obediently to receive the load. 

“What shall I do with them?" she asked. 
“ Where do you want me to put them? " 

“Why, put 'em on j/ou, to-morrow morning, 
everyone of 'em. There's underclothes and a 
petticoat, good, sensible shoes, and a gownd 
that's warranted to wash without hiring an extry 
washer. No more wapsin' of them there 
flummy-diddles 'round, 'cept for meetin'." 

Poor Maysie turned slowly, and still more 


88 


BARNEY. 


slowly went to her room. She dropped the 
things in a heap upon the floor. Then she 
picked them up, one by one, and looked them 
over. Unbelief was written all over her face. 

After a little, when the full meaning of all 
the recent events dawned upon her, she threw 
the bundle into a corner and cried in a sort of 
despairing rage. Then a new thought came to 
her. She sat up. 

If they would do this to her, they would 
probably take Barney’s pretty collar away and 
make him wear the old strap again, with its 
rusty buckle. Poor Barney! 

By and by she fell asleep and forgot, for a time, 
all that was lost, and all that had come. 

Aunt Polly came next morning to insist upon 
the change, and to see, for herself, that the last 
porcelain button had been crowded through its 
own proper, though badly embroidered, button- 
hole. 

Now, Aunt Polly had never served an appren- 
ticeship at dressmaking. She did not know 
anything about Worth, or Doucet, or any other 
of the foreign great ones. She had not so much 
as heard of a Redfern pattern, and she had 
never been used to the cutting and making of 
children’s garments. So it should not be a mat- 
ter of surprise to any that she made a few natural 
mistakes, such as getting the sleeves too nar- 
row, the skirt too scant, and the band of the 
neck too high. 


CHANGED FORTUNES. 89 

“ Poor mamma!” Maysie murmured, as she 
followed Aunt Polly down the stairs. ‘ ‘ Dear 
mamma ! I have one thing left to be glad about. 
You cannot see me.” 

She ate no breakfast. 

A change in her fortune had been first hinted 
at when she was sent to sleep in a stuffy place at 
the top of the narrow staircase. She was sorry 
to leave the spare bedroom. From its windows 
she could see Barney in his kennel and find 
some comfort in the thought that he was near. 
Still, she did not complain. 

Then came the words which made her feel 
herself and Barney to be paupers. That was 
very sad. But this last change made the other 
changes plain. She had no mother. She had 
no beautiful home. She had no right to the 
place she occupied, no right to the food. The 
ill-fitting, uncomfortable garments were un- 
doubtedly a gift. She had no right to anything 
or anybody save Barney. 

And still the Fault-finder drew the accus- 
tomed sum. “No knowin’, though,” he said 
dolefully to the others, “no knowin’ at all how 
long it ’ll last. And there’s nothin’ like bein’ 
prepared for anything! ” 

When the change in clothing came Barney 
was troubled. 

His little mistress was no longer, except in 
the fairness of her face and the gold of her hair, 
a reminder of the butterfly of his early dreams. 


90 


BARNEY. 


The folded wings were gone. And there came 
times when, looking into her face, Barney saw 
something that made him sigh, it was so white 
and strange — something that made him fear that 
he would lose her before long and that wings 
would not be needed in this flight. 

Her hands grew thin ; the dimples left them. 
Her motion was no longer that of some winged 
creature. 

She never sobbed of late, as she did at first, 
when by kissing her cheeks and her hands he 
could give her comfort. He sometimes found 
tears upon her eyelashes, but she did not seem to 
know that they were there. At such times he 
wiped them away with his gentle tongue and 
then leaned his head upon her shoulder. 

When the day was near its close she often sat 
upon the stone stairway leading up from the 
outer cellar door. When she sat thus Barney’s 
head reached above hers, for hers had begun to 
droop of late, and the song of the birds had died 
out of her throat. Then, too, she was so often 
busy that he saw less of her, just at the time 
when she needed him most and when he needed 
her, for her unhappiness struck at his very 
heart. 

It had come about so soon, this dreadful some- 
thing which had not only changed her but had so 
changed the manner of those others toward her. 
He could not understand it. They were begin- 
ning to speak to her in somewhat the same 


CHANGED FORTUNES. 9 1 

fashion they used when speaking to him : ‘ ‘ Do 
this!’' and Do that!” 

His own position, too, was gradually lowering 
to the old level. The big blue and white bowl, 
out of which he loved to eat because it was her 
gift and marked the beginning of better things, 
was broken one day. Another old basin had 
taken its place. It was as old and as battered 
as the one Maysie, with disgust written all over 
her tiny face, had thrown away that day when 
the bowl was bought. This matter of the rusty 
basin troubled the little girl more than it did her 
dog. But she could not help it. None of the 
money that came ever reached her hands, and 
once she heard the dreaded Voice say that it 
cost a good deal to keep a dog gassing about.” 

The Fault-finder suddenly became very solic- 
itous lest the old mother, whose unnumbered 
steps in his behalf had never been recognized, 
should wear herself out. There was a pair of 
younger hands in the house. They could do 
small things ; and a pair of smaller feet should 
run the errands. 

‘‘The girl is moping,” he said. “Give her 
something to do. She’s a couple of years older 
than she looks when tricked out in all them 
ribbons and things.” And the grandmother, 
though not unkind at heart, was so accustomed 
to his authority and so touched by his tardy 
tenderness that she yielded. 

Maysie was set to washing dishes, preparing 


92 


BARNEY. 


vegetables, and doing unnumbered other things 
that come in the way of the housekeeper. She did 
not complain. A little employment was prob- 
ably a wise thing. It might have become a real 
blessing had kindness prompted. She learned 
to do her tasks quietly and to take a childish 
pride in doing them well. 

One task was taken up more willingly than 
the rest, because it took her away from the 
others into the dim and pleasant cellar, where 
the soft shadows made the air cool, and the bright 
sunlight, streaming through the outer doorway, 
made it sweet. The place reminded her of a pic- 
ture hanging in her beloved old home, it was so 
dim and shadowy. This task was that of churning. 

In order to reach the tall dasher at a point 
where her arms and sleeves would not get spat- 
tered with the occasional flying specks of cream, 
she had to stand upon a little stool. Standing 
thus she would have made a model for an 
American Millet, one who could paint the sad 
patience that must sometimes come into the 
everyday doings of life. 

It was hard work, though she could rest every 
few minutes. But she was sure of being alone 
for a good while. The yellow butter required 
much wooing from her dasher before consenting 
to form itself into a cool hard lump upon the 
surface of the cream, which, to Maysie's aston- 
ishment, was cream no longer, but had turned 
into buttermilk ! 


\ • 




I 







CHANGED FORTUNES. 


95 


As she worked, mounted upon the little stool, 
she looked around her and wondered about 
many things. There was a machine of some 
kind in the corner. She wondered what it was 
and why it stood there. The old shop across 
the way was full of broken bits of machinery — 
reapers and hoes and rakes — yet this queer 
thing remained here. It had a tiny board side- 
walk running up between two lengths of low 
fence. A piece of rope was fastened into a 
ring at the farther and upper end. 

She had churned but twice when, one day, 
Barney found her at the new task. He lay 
down where he could watch her, and was con- 
tent to be in her presence. She called his at- 
tention to the machine. He lifted his head and 
looked at it. Then he turned away with a 
sheepish air, and held his excuse for a tail 
very close to his body. 

Soon he seemed to think of something. May- 
sie saw the thought dawning upon his face. 
This something caused him to sit up. He 
looked first at the tall dasher, as it moved slowly 
and steadily up and down, and then at the object 
in the cellar corner. 

He arose and went toward the old machine. 
He seemed much interested in it, for he smelled 
it from several points. Then he stood upon his 
hinder legs and put his nose to the bit of rope 
dangling from the ring in the upper end of the 
little fence. 


96 


BARNEY. 


This seemed to convince him. 

With the air of one who has something very 
disagreeable to do, but has, nevertheless, deter- 
mined to do it, he sprang upon the narrow walk, 
and after pawing and working very hard he 
seemed to begin to climb, for he made the effort 
one makes in going up a hill. The old machine 
creaked and groaned in every rickety old joint. 
Maysie had watched him with interest. He did 
not often do a foolish thing, but this that he was 
doing seemed to be either foolish or crazy. 

She called to him to come down. 

For the first time during their life together he 
did not obey. He turned his head to look at 
her, but trudged patiently on. 

Maysie jumped down from her stool and ran 
to him. The little platform was actually turn- 
ing! She was sure that he was breaking the 
whole thing into pieces. 

Aunt Polly heard the racket and came to see 
what it could mean. When she saw Barney 
persistently walking up the little platform, and 
after she had listened to Maysie’s tale of his 
doings, she sat down upon a potato box and 
laughed until she could have been heard a long 
way off — for Aunt Polly was not famous for hav- 
ing the softest voice in the neighborhood. 

Barney looked deeply humiliated ; still he 
plodded patiently on. 

Then Aunt Polly called the grandmother to 
come. While they talked Maysie learned that 


CHANGED FORTUNES. 


97 


the old machine had been bought at an auction 
for almost nothing, and that before Barney came 
they had a dog who did all of the churning by 
means of this very machine. But Barney had 
hated it so, and after repeated whippings had 
been so unwilling to do this task — the only one to 
which he had ever objected — that when it got 
out of gear’’ one day they just got along with- 
out it, ‘‘ druther’n to have so much fuss.” 

That which force had exacted with such dif- 
ficulty from Barney love now made him eager 
to do. 

He showed his wishes so plainly that Aunt 
Polly rolled the churn into the corner and fas- 
tened the dasher to the long, out-reaching bar. 
Then, after oiling the wheels, she found that 
with the addition of a few bits of twine the old 
affair was again in working trim. And when it 
really started off, Maysie began to feel that Bar- 
ney had not done so very foolish a thing after 
all. She ran up to him and made him stop, 
while she hugged him and talked to him with 
those foolish words which affection finds ready 
to the tongue. 

The machine started off again. Maysie 
laughed at the funny figure Barney cut, and, if 
you will believe it, Barney was not in the least 
grieved at this. He was glad to hear a memory 
of the merry ripple. The bird’s song had not 
really died out of her throat, then. The old 
days might come back. 


98 


BARNEY. 


He would willingly have worn a cap and bells. 
He would have learned to dance upon his hinder 
legs, and would have become the veriest clown 
for her sake. And as for the weariness and the 
heavy climbing — why, anything was pleasant if 
it made life more pleasant to her. 


‘'HE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME.'' 


99 


XII. 

“HE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME." 

B arney hoped that the matter of the 
churning machine would make his little 
mistress happier. It hardly seemed possible, 
yet he was sure it had drawn them closer to- 
gether. Two or three times, when he took his 
place upon the little sidewalk, she had laughed 
and petted him again as she did that first morn- 
ing when he succeeded in making Aunt Polly 
understand that he meant to do the task himself. 
But there came a morning when, instead of 
laughing, she wept with her head against his. 

“It doesn't do any good, dear Barney," she 
said, “ except to prove how much you love me ; 
and I don't need any proof of that." 

Neither of them knew that he was to prove 
this in still greater degree, for love is sometimes 
put to cruel tests in this world of ours. 

Night after night Barney went the rounds of 
the farm and then crept into his kennel with an 
aching heart. Things seemed to be growing 
worse instead of better, and his utmost efforts 
only showed his helplessness the more plainly. 

He was glad when neighboring cattle and 
horses trespassed; it gave him a legitimate 


lOO 


BARNEY. 


chance to show the family that his love for her, 
and even the treadmill of the old churn, had not 
changed his nature. It was as savage as ever. 
Then, too, the trespassers made him forget, for 
a few brief moments, the trouble he felt ; and he 
had a chance to give vent to the helpless rage 
which sometimes stirred his heart. 

It was something worth while to make the 
pigs squeal. They seemed to him the embodi- 
ment of selfishness — always quarreling, always 
trying to get the best and the whole of every- 
thing. He could not put it into words, but he 
was sure that this evil of selfishness was the root 
of all that was going wrong. 

Some way, in his blind trouble, and perhaps 
because of his keener sense, he accused the 
Fault-finder for much that was troubling her. 
He remembered the long wound made upon the 
little arm when it was outstretched to save him ; 
the memory made him gnash his teeth. He 
thought, in his rage, that such a wound made 
now would mean death to the man who made it. 

He followed the wagon to town one day. 
Something had been stolen from it on the last 
trip, and they wanted Barney to watch while the 
errands were being attended to. He of the lop- 
ear saw the approach of his old enemy. Grown 
overconfident of the field because his antagonist 
had remained away so long, he renewed the old- 
time boasting and added many snarling taunts. 
It is needless to say that these received prompt 


''HE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME/’ 


lOI 


attention from Barney. After a few brief but 
exciting- moments the boaster found himself 
minus conceit, minus, also, a piece of skin from 
the cheek, and the richer by the addition of an 
ungainly slit in one of the flopping ears. 

You can see from all this that there was dan- 
ger of Barney's losing his patient temper toward 
all except Maysie ; for the grief of Maysie made 
the heart of Barney very sore. 

They sat together one evening on the old 
stone stairway. The little girl had not spoken 
for sometime. 

" It's a big world, Barney," she said, after a lit- 
tle while, as her hand slid softly over his head. 
" Such a great big world ! And God made it — 
God, who is so mighty. If men had made it 
'twould be different. But it's God's world, Bar- 
ney ; and yet there isn't any place in it for you 
and me. They don't want us here. What can 
we do? Where shall we go? " 

Barney dropped his nose upon her knee in 
sheer despair of an answer to the pitiful ques- 
tion. 

Although the voice of the bird was still in her 
throat it was coming to sound like that of the 
robin which the farmer once stoned to death. 
It fell to the ground under the cherry tree where 
it had been singing. Barney had run up in time 
to hear its last little cry. Then he had followed 
the farmer on into the field ; but his feet were 


102 


BARNEY. 


heavy and unwilling. He was only a plain, un- 
pretending bulldog, you know, and had never 
been educated up to the delight of seeing a bird 
fall dead. His prey was of nobler sort. 

The new moon rose slowly from over the pas- 
ture hill; its soft light fell upon those two. 
Barney blinked at it. It was over Maysie's 
right shoulder and over his left, for he was fac- 
ing her. But Barney was not at all supersti- 
tious. The moon was simply the moon. He 
knew it of old, and was fond of watching it 
from the door of his kennel. Sometimes, by its 
light, he had found out truant horses and pigs ; 
and, more than once, it had enabled him to 
drive men and boys from the orchard and cherry 
trees. 

But as Barney blinked at the fair, new moon, 
he could not know — being only an everyday 
dog and no clairvoyant — that before it reached 
the full his little mistress would have flown be- 
yond the reach of those who troubled them both, 
those whose kindness must be bought by gold, 
into a beautiful home in the sunny land of her 
birth. He could not know that she would And a 
home of love and plenty, and that he, Barney — 

There came the sound of horses’ hoofs, flying 
swiftly. 

Barney sat up. 

A carriage whose wheels neither rattled nor 
creaked stopped in front of the farmhouse. 





THE MOON WAS OVER HIS LEFT SHOULDER, BUT 
BARNEY WAS NOT SUPERSTITIOUS.” 










‘‘HE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME.” 105 

It was time to investigate. Barney looked 
at Maysie and gave an apologetic wag of his 
short tail, as if he would say : 

‘ ‘ I beg your pardon ; but this is really im- 
portant.” 

She gave him a little pat of dismissal, and he 
trotted to the gate in time to meet a stranger of 
much dignity. 

The Fault-finder had seen the stranger too. 
He came wondering out of the house, hatless, 
coatless, and with his feet incased only in the 
clouded woolen stockings which he wore through 
all seasons. Curiosity peered out from his face 
and showed itself in every line of his body. 

“ Howdy do?” he asked. 

“ Well, thanks. And yourself? ” 

“Jest middlin'.” 

“ I am James Montstuart,” the gentleman said, 
“ sole administrator to the estate of the late Mrs. 
Bolton, and designated in her will as guardian 
of her little daughter. I have come to assume 
the charge of my ward. Financial matters of 
grave importance hindered, or I should have come 
at once upon hearing of the death of my client.” 

Maysie had recognized the voice. She was 
standing at the corner of the house with her 
hands clasped, and an expression upon her white 
little face which said that the words she had 
heard were too good to be true. The lawyer 
saw her and held out his arms, while he ran 
his keen eyes over the form before him. 


Io6 BARNEY. 

I begin to suspect,” he said, that this has 
been a shameful neglect of duty upon my part 
and — ” 

Here Maysie ran forward sobbing, and was 
clasped in the arms held out for her. 

‘‘ And though she was with her nearest kin- 
dred, I am beginning to think that by this neg- 
lect I have almost forfeited my right to be called 
a trustworthy man. But if there is such a thing 
as atonement for neglect that was unintentional, 
why, then — ” 

He stooped to kiss the forehead of the little 
girl who clung to him passionately. 

Barney could not understand why Maysie 
cried. He went nearer to the stranger and 
looked into his face. It was a kind face, and 
it bent tenderly over his little mistress. Per- 
haps Maysie did not want him to go away 
again. Barney went around behind the gentle- 
man so as to stand between him and the gate. 

If Maysie wanted the stranger to stay then 
he, Barney, would do what he could to discour- 
age his going. 

Maysie, dear child, you belong to me now,” 
said Mr. Montstuart, while he smoothed her 
sunny hair. ‘^My wife wants her other little 
girl, and Virgie is almost wild to see her little 
twin sister — she calls you that. Queer little 
twins you’ll make, now won’t you ? She is 
dark as a Spaniard, and you are as fair as a 
Greek.” 


‘'HE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME/’ IO7 

Then turning sharply upon the man before 
him he said : 

“ She doesn’t seem well.” 

“No; she’s been kind of mauger ever sence 
her ma died.” 

‘ ‘ And you’ve been very kind and tender with 
her, I know,” said the lawyer, savagely. “ I see 
it in your face.” 

“ I’ve done my duty.” 

“Duty be hanged! Why — Maysie, why 
didn’t you write and tell me to come after you? 
Why didn’t you let me know all about it? ” 

The lawyer held Job to strict account. 

“ Not for the sake of the money,” he said to 
himself as he bored with lawyer-like persistency 
for every expenditure. “ Maysie has had losses, 
to be sure ; still there is more than enough. But, 
because of what she has suffered, he shall dis- 
gorge all above enough to pay for her board 
and for that of her dog.” 

Maysie’s love for the dog was very evident to 
her guardian. With much pride she had shown 
the bit of paper which proved her ownership. 

At this Mr. Montstuart smiled quizzically. 

“Well, little one, he’s very good, no doubt. 
But he isn’t a beauty ; now, is he? ” 

Barney heard the words and understood the 
tone of good-natured disapproval. His heart 
became stone. He had been so glad at the 
gladness of his little mistress that no thought 
of himself had entered his mind. Now he re- 


io8 


BARNEY. 


membered all his ugliness, and the troublesome 
patch of brindle pressed like a weight of iron 
upon his head. But Maysie slid down beside him. 

He is very beautiful to me,'' she said. 

The stone rolled off from Barney's heart, and 
the iron weight lifted itself from his head. To 
be called beautiful! — and by the little voice! 

And he was beautiful to mamma, too. He's 
so good, and brave, and dear! We thought he 
saved my life once. Let me tell you about that.” 

Then she told him. 

Barney lay quite still, only swallowing mod- 
estly whenever the little voice, grown very ten- 
der, dwelt too long upon his wisdom and courage 
and prompt action. As the story progressed, 
Barney saw the shrewd eyes of the lawyer be- 
come bright with tears and that he reached for 
his handkerchief. With gentle consideration 
he turned his own eyes away. Presently the 
gentleman leaned forward and began to pat Bar- 
ney's head with such vigorous love taps that a 
dog with less courage could never have borne 
them. But Barney was brave. He could en- 
dure anything for love's sake or for friendship's. 
And then the pats were falling upon that trou- 
blesome patch of brindle! Strange how little 
the patch seemed to disturb people when once 
they really came to know Barney ! 

Maysie spoke of the silver collar; and Mr. 
Montstuart had to wipe his eyes again before he 
could read the inscription. 


'‘HE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME/’ IOQ 

" Fine dog/' lie said. " Very, very fine dog! 
What is his name? Barry? O, Barney, is it? 
Well, Barney, I’m glad to make your acquaint- 
ance. Shake, old fellow!” 

Maysie gravely laid the strong white paw in 
the hand held out so cordially. 

" We can’t spare you, Barney,” said the law- 
yer ; ' ' you’ll have to make up your mind to live 
in the South.” And Barney’s thoughts of that 
sunny land grew to be very bright indeed. 

Maysie told her guardian about her mother’s 
plans for Johnson. Mr. Montstuart had an in- 
terview with the young man, and when it was 
over Johnson went up to his little room, three 
stairs at a bound, to begin at once the repacking 
of the new trunk. 

The morning after Mr. Montstuart’s arrival, 
Maysie appeared in the clothes she had been 
used to wear before Aunt Polly tried her hand 
so unsuccessfully at dressmaking. 

Barney rejoiced greatly at the sight. She was 
his fairy ideal again. The folded wings drooped 
from beneath her hair, and as she moved they 
fluttered against her soft white gown. He was 
sure now that better days were coming. He 
looked upon this outward change as a manifesta- 
tion of inward happiness, and was glad accord- 
ingly. He wagged himself all over, and jumped 
again and again from off all four of his feet. 

Maysie went that afternoon to show her big 
friend the very spot where she had been seized 


I lO 


BARNEY. 


by the dreadful man, and as they went Barney 
trotted beside them. 

They had but just entered the red gate when 
Barney discovered a breach in the line fence. 
This troubled him. As long as he was on the 
old farm he must not shirk. He ran back to give 
the signal to Johnson by pulling the leg of his 
trousers. You can readily believe that Johnson 
was willing to receive suggestions from Barney. 

While Barney was gone, and the two were 
walking slowly up the hill, talking pleasantly, 
Maysie was startled at hearing a furious roar. 
She looked up and saw an angry bull pawing 
and raging at the top of the hill. His dreadful 
head was lowered ; he reared and plunged, send- 
ing the loosened earth about him in a shower. 

She screamed sharply and caught her guardi- 
an’s arm. One look and that gentleman needed 
no second warning to join, with most undigni- 
fied haste, in a run for the foot of the hill. 

In his search for Johnson Barney recognized 
Maysie’s cry. It was the cry of one who was in 
danger. He turned and flew to her rescue. 

As he came into the lane by the house he 
heard the furious roar and saw the flying figures. 
His heart stood still, though his feet became 
wings. He knew the frightful creature. It be- 
longed on the next farm, and was the terror of 
the neighborhood. It had only recently been 
brought there ; but he had already fought with 
it once. He came off victorious then, though it 



maysip: was startled at hearing a furious roar. 






"A' 



‘‘HE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME.” II3 

had been a mighty struggle. But there was not 
the same need that pressed him now. She had 
not been in danger then, but now. He must 
fly more swiftly or that dreadful creature would 
have her at his mercy. 

He ground his teeth with rage as he bounded 
over the red gate, and rushed with all his flerce 
might to get between her and the beast. 

He was not afraid. He was a bulldog, born 
for such battles. Because of such battles his 
ancestors had won the name. 

He was between her and danger; he paused 
and lay close to the ground. 

As the creature came forward, bellowing 
flercely, he gathered all his strength. To spring 
forward and seize the mad beast's nose, and with 
mighty will hold it to the ground so that its 
own oncoming force would throw it upon its 
back — that was his plan of battle. If he were 
to catch it by the throat that would mean 
death to the beast, and Barney had been trained 
to know that, while he might punish, he must 
not kill. 

It was not simply a cruel sport for him, it 
was a great necessity. Barney had the bravery 
of a dozen matadors in his veins. He could 
have won honor in the arenas of Spain; but 
here, on the old farm, was greater need for 
courage and prowess. There the beloved lady 
might be won by the bravest, but with Barney 
it meant the life of his idol. 


BARNEY. 


1 14 

The bull was near enough for him to spring. 
With distended jaws and a fierce, challenging 
howl the dog fiew forward. 

But, for once, the result was not what he had ex- 
pected. A new and larger iron ring than he had 
ever found in a bulbs nose before, had just been 
welded into the nostrils of this one. It caught 
his teeth and broke them, so that the bull could 
wrench itself from the grip of his heavy jaw. 

Barney ran back, unmindful of the pain, and 
sprang again. He was caught by the cruel 
horns and tossed high into the air. A piercing 
shriek from Maysie and a cry of horror from her 
companion greeted his ears, as he fell to strike 
the pitiless horns and be tossed for a second 
time into the air. He fell heavily, crushed and 
bleeding, on the ground near Maysie’s feet. 

The bull, blinded by the blood, went pawing 
about in bewilderment, while Maysie, regardless 
of danger, flew forward and dragged the body of 
her beloved dog through the open gateway. 

Mr. Montstuart was too horrified at her dar- 
ing to interfere, but had presence of mind 
enough to close and fasten the gate before the 
raging animal could find its way through. 

‘‘ Horrible! he exclaimed, with a shudder. 
‘ ‘ Pitiful sight 1 Brave dog ! Brave, brave dog ! 
Worth his weight in gold. We might both be 
dying now, except for the dog. Wonderful! 
Brave!'' He drew his hand across his pallid 
forehead. 


“HE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME.” 11$ 

The bull, bewildered, was making its way- 
back up the hill. Its angry belle wings were 
growing less horribly distinct. 

Maysie had thrown herself upon the ground 
and, lifting the head of her pet, was holding it 
against her breast and sobbing with grief and 
terror. 

“ O, Barney,” she said, “ dear, dearest Bar- 
ney! And you did it to save me, and now I 
must lose you, and you are all I have left in 
this world.” 

At the sound of her dear little voice Barney’s 
wandering senses returned. He opened his 
eyes and looked up into the dear little face. He 
saw tears upon it and tried to lift his head a 
little so as to reach out his tongue and wipe 
them away. But he could not. He gave a 
slight moan and lay back heavily upon her arm. 

“ O, Barney ! ” wailed the little voice. “And 
you will find my mother there. Tell her, tell 
her that once more you have saved my life. 
And it’s not worth the price, dear Barney. It’s 
not much of a life to me now. She will be glad 
to see you, Barney, but I — ” 

The lawyer bent over the two. His own 
tears fell upon their heads; and he was not 
ashamed of those tears. 

“Worth ten times his weight in gold,” he 
murmured, caressing the bruised body tenderly. 

Maysie smoothed the suffering head and the 
limp white paws stained with his own blood, 


BARNEY. 


1 16 

shed in her behalf. She kissed him again, and 
though Barney was almost gone he noticed that 
this second kiss had fallen upon the brindled 
spot. His eyes were dim. He could no longer 
see the little face bent lovingly down, but he felt 
the tender pressure of the little lips ; and the 
disfiguring spot that had troubled him so sorely 
went away this time. He was quite sure of it. 
All the spots were fading out. He was growing 
whiter, fairer. Perhaps he would even become 
really — 

He no longer felt the pressure of the little 
lips nor the tears as they fell upon his face. 
The little voice became a murmur and was gone. 

That was all. 

His soul — and who can tell me that he had no 
soul? — went out. His life was given to save 
hers. It was as he would have planned it had 
it been his to plan. The last sound which fell 
upon his ears was the beloved voice that had 
turned all his life into a song and that made 
death into a great blessedness. 



COSSACK. 


ii 





, ■ / 




» . r • 




« 

. • * > 





» fc ■ 










COSSACK. 


L 

THE BOY ARTIST. 

‘‘ ' I 'HEE has had lessons before.’' 

The voice was very quiet. The gentle 
woman in Quaker gown was making her first 
round of the children’s drawing class, and had 
reached the chair of the new pupil. She leaned 
over his board for several minutes, then stoop- 
ing until her head was on a level with his own, 
vShe slowly weighed the merits of his work. 

It was a modest drawing, done upon one 
corner of a great sheet of cream-tinted paper, 
which was held by bright thumb tacks to a 
heavy drawing board. Siegfried Hahnn” was 
printed in a boyish hand upon an upper corner 
of the board. 

The class was engaged upon the simplest 
object drawing. Most of the fingers, and not a 
few of the faces, were dingy with charcoal. A 
stranger might have thought that a juvenile 
minstrel troupe had been called away just as its 
members were fairly under way in their appli- 
cation of burnt cork. 

9 


122 


COSSACK. 


The teacher had gently chidden the careless 
ones and directed the more thoughtful. She 
had erased and corrected the work of all except 
this one, although only making her first round. 

As she approached the chair of the new 
scholar, the room became unnaturally still. The 
buzzing of impatient whispers died away. 
Charcoal, crayon, and rubber were suspended in 
grimy fingers while twelve pairs of eyes forgot 
their tasks. 

The newcomer made the unlucky thirteenth 
at the long table. The others had this advan- 
tage over him, that they all began work at the 
same time, and so had come to know each other 
at once and had grown tolerant of each other’s 
faults as well as of each other’s excellences, 
which latter is not always an easy thing. 

But the new boy was an unsolved riddle. 
Would he do better than the rest, and arouse 
envy; or would he do worse, and merit scorn? 
Was he likely to become a favorite with the 
teacher or with the pupils? If with the teacher, 
then it would not be so easy for him to win favor 
with the others. 

These were important questions. 

The boy who attracted all of this attention 
was seated at the farther end of the long table. 
You would have thought him to be eight years old, 
perhaps more, if you looked only at his sturdy 
boyish figure ; but when he lifted his face you 
would be sure that he was not so old. 


THE BOY ARTIST. 


123 


His hair was cropped across his forehead, but 
it fell upon his shoulders in a mass of ruddy 
gold. He was neatly dressed in dull brown, and 
a soft wide knot of pale blue silk fastened his 
collar. 

The prettiest girl in the class sat next. 

She was spending the most of her time in 
watching his work from the corner of her eye. 
And as he drew slowly, thoughtfully, or, some- 
times a little fitfully, she began to make gri- 
maces to the others. By opening her mouth and 
rolling her eyes toward the ceiling she indicated 
that the work was of surprising quality. 
That this quality was surprisingly good was 
shown by an air of awe that completely effaced 
every dimple from the corners of her rosy 
mouth. 

It was not long before the little stranger came 
to know what she was doing. The pantomime 
amused him greatly, and he cast a shy glance 
of good fellowship into the besmeared face 
opposite. 

But there was no response. 

Smudge, as for obvious reasons the others 
called him, had not made up his mind to be on 
friendly terms with such a big fellow, who 
could wear soft neckties and hair that touched 
his shoulders. Then, up to this particular morn- 
ing, Smudge had been the chief point of attrac- 
tion for the bright eyes of the prettiest girl, 
and it is not strange that he should hesitate to 


124 


COSSACK. 


accept advances from the youngster who had 
stolen that attention. And as he was a sort of 
leader in the little art school the others copied 
his scornful air. 

So, as the drab-gowned figure bent over the 
bronzed head, there was an ominous silence. 

The stranger was not an oversensitive child. 
He did not know many children, it is true, but 
he had looked forward with shy pleasure to 
the day when he could make pictures in com- 
pany with other children. He loved this art of 
picture making so much that he was eager to be 
friends with all who were engaged in it. 

But as he sat there it slowly dawned upon 
him that things were not quite what he had 
expected. He was one with the other little art 
workers, to be sure, but he was not yet accepted 
as being one of them. 

His sunny face fiushed brightly. His boyish 
lips parted, while short, nervous breaths came 
through them as he leaned his head quickly aside 
to let the teacher look at the white cylinder from 
his own point of view. 

‘‘Thee has had lessons before,’' the gentle 
voice said again ; and the eyes of the teacher 
rested kindly upon his face until, seeing that 
shyness kept him from answering, she asked, 

“ Has thee not ? ” 

“ No, madam, never any lessons; but I draw 
a great deal of the time, and my papa poses for 
me sometimes.” 


THE BOY ARTIST. 12$ 

‘‘Thy father poses for thee!’’ echoed the 
teacher in mild surprise. 

At this point Smudge thought it about time 
to break the back of the admiration that was 
surely rising in the minds about him, and as 
surely pointing in the wrong direction. 

“ His father is an artist,” he blurted out. 
“ No wonder he can draw.” 

Then the attention turned itself so forcibly 
upon Smudge, that he began to wish it were in 
the wrong place again along with the admiration. 

The Quakeress looked down at the flushed 
face. 

“ Is it true ? ” she asked. 

The bronzed head was lifted a little proudly 
as its owner answered, “ Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Then I can understand how thee has so well 
understood what thee should do. The circular 
opening is drawn as an oval ; why ? ” 

“ It was turned a little away from me. I 
could not look directly into it.” 

“ And thee has made the far end of the cylin- 
der smaller. Why has thee done so? Are they 
not both the same size ? ” 

She lifted the object and turned it about, end 
for end. 

“ O, to be sure! But the end that is away 
must be made smaller than the one that is 
near.” 

“It is easy to say that ; but why must thee 
make it smaller? ” 


126 


COSSACK. 


‘ ‘ Because this is only a picture of it, and the 
picture of anything must look as the thing itself 
looks from the place where you look at it.’' 

Tell me anything of which thee can think 
which grows smaller as it goes away from 
thee.” 

‘ ‘ O, a railway track ! The rails look as though 
they were lying closer together the farther away 
they are.” 

Then, as he saw the smile of approval on the 
face above him and the inner blackness showing 
through Smudge’s besmeared countenance, he 
gave a downward fling of his hands. 

But I did not see it alone,” he said. ‘‘ I 
never could And it out myself. It was only be- 
cause my papa told me how to see it.” 

Thy father does well in teaching thee how 
to see. That is the great lesson for the artist. 
It is not so hard to do when once thee has 
learned to see.” 

She placed a white cube in front of the boy 
and went on. 

But the ordeal had been too severe. The lit- 
tle hand was not steady, and the shadows in the 
second drawing were blurred and the lights 
dimmed. 

This was noticed by the bright eyes beside 
him, and the attraction was gone. Their owner 
made a little sign of disappointment and 
disgust. After that she turned her attention 
upon Smudge to such good effect that that 


THE BOY ARTIST. 


127 


young gentleman speedily lost his frown, and 
show^ed himself to be not so bad looking after 
all. 

The postman's whistle sounded. The Qua- 
keress went to the door, opened it, received her 
mail, and in closing the door neglected to latch 
it firmly. As she became engrossed in her let- 
ters it swung slowly and noiselessly back and 
revealed a stately Russian wolfhound of snowy 
white, standing at the very threshold as if await- 
ing permission to enter. 

His keen eyes caught sight of the little master 
at the farther end of the table, and only his good 
breeding kept him from rushing forward. But 
no word of invitation came. No one spoke to 
him, though he held up his ears in a most invit- 
ing manner and waved his long tail vigorously, 
as if he were already responding. He lifted 
first one foot and then another in a longing 
way, and when no word of invitation came he 
let them fall slowly back again upon the floor in 
the place from which he had taken them. 

The corners of his mouth were drawn back 
under the loose muzzle of russet leather in that 
peculiar way which gives an idea of gentleness, 
for the soft pink tongue lay loosely out and nearly 
covered the glistening teeth. 

The boy with the hair of bronze was too busy 
with his thoughts and his fingers to notice that 
the faces were turning toward a new point of 
interest. Presently a subdued little noise, that 


128 


COSSACK. 


was not so much a whine as an affectionate call, 
caused him to turn his head. A smile parted 
his lips. This was a friend, a dear, dear friend. 
The boy would have been more than human if 
he had thought at once to check the smile and 
to frown, instead. 

The dog’s responsive nature caught at it as 
permission to enter, and with a few long bounds 
was at his side. 

The nervous ones screamed. Smudge’s black 
face grew blacker. The gentle Quakeress was 
startled. 

Siegfried felt the awkwardness of the situa- 
tion. Throwing the hand that held the char- 
coal around the dog’s neck, he dropped his 
burning face upon the glad face lifted to him 
and in an agonized whisper said, softly, 

O, Cossack, how could you!” 

The dog instantly accepted the rebuke. The 
quiver of joy at finding the little master for 
whom he had waited died out of his frame. 
His tail ceased its joyful swing; he let his head 
sink upon the table and became quite motionless. 

It seemed to the child that he could never lift 
his face to meet those other faces. The shrieks 
had been followed by subdued titters and by 
whispers which stung his ears like hornets. 
They were all looking at him again. His cheeks 
grew hotter, his eyes filled, and the arm uncon- 
sciously tightened about the neck of his dog 
friend. 


THE BOY ARTIST. 


129 


The gentle Quakeress understood, and though 
it wanted yet a quarter of an hour to the time of 
dismissal she tapped the bell. 

There came the pushing back of chairs, the 
noise of restless feet and chattering voices. 

Siegfried felt a soft hand upon his head. 

^ ^ Thee is tired ; thee was made to talk too 
much, and it was hard ; thy dog is a grand 
fellow ; thee will bring him within after this ; 
he can well lie near while thee works.'’ 

The boy raised his head and began wearily to 
gather up his materials. 

‘‘Thee will come again?" asked the gentle 
voice. 

“Must have to, I s'pose," he said, dropping 
without knowing it into the most childish form 
of speech. 

“ It will grow pleasant to thee. Here is the 
shelf for thy things. Good morning! " 

He smiled faintly into the kind face and 
hurried the drawing board and the box contain- 
ing stompfen, charcoal, rubbers, crayon, and 
chamois skin into their place upon the shelf. 
Then he and Cossack went out — the first to 
leave the room where every pair of eyes was 
upon them and every tongue was ready to wag 
about them. 

Once in the streets, with the superb hound at 
his heels, Siegfried ran as fast as his legs could 
carry him. He ducked under bundles, shied 
around groups of people, dodged horses and 


130 


COSSACK. 


cars at the crossings, until he reached a tall 
building where, spurning the elevator, he ran 
hastily up long flights of stairs and burst at last 
into a long room where a tall man was standing 
before an easel. 

He ran in front of this man, clasped both 
arms about his legs, and hid his face in the folds 
of the ample studio coat. 

O, papa! ” he cried. “Teach me your own 
self. I can’t go off alone again. I will do 
everything you want me to, and I’ll never for- 
get one word you say.” 

The artist laid down his palette and maul- 
stick, unclasped the clinging hands, and lifted 
the boy in his arms. 

The dog stood by, watching each movement 
anxiously. In his dog brain he felt that in 
some unknown way he had caused this trouble 
to come upon his little playmate, and he suffered 
accordingly. 

“ Is it too cruel to my Siegfried? ” asked the 
tall man. “ I must stop now and we will go for 
a walk, because of this aching head.” 

But first he sat down in a wide, strong rocker 
and cuddled the child in his arms and leaned 
his head upon the boy’s head. 

And the old man on the canvas, looking down, 
could see that the hair of the artist must have 
been of the same dusky gold when he was a child. 
He could see, too, that though the eyes were 
hollow they were of the same clear blue. The 


THE BOY ARTIST. 


I3I 

forehead, the mouth, and chin were from the 
same mold. And if the old man had a heart 
on the other side of the canvas, it must have 
grown tender while he gazed with his gray, un- 
blinking eyes at the group before him — the 
artist, the boy, and the dog. 


132 


COSSACK. 


IL 


THE DOG GIVES HIS OPINION OF A PICTURE. 
HE next morning found Siegfried curled 



up on the wide sofa in his own particular 


corner of the studio. A drawing board was 
upon his knees, and a small desk near him had 
all of its drawers exposed. Its top was littered 
with sheets of paper, some of which were cov- 
ered with black lines, while others were dabbled 
with color. 

His curly hair was in wild disorder from the 
impatient thrusts of his restless fingers. Two 
little wrinkles stood up in his forehead and 
looked as if some one had been wondering 
whether a longer nose would not improve his 
face and had forgotten to rub out the lines. 

Siegfried was puzzled over something he had 
just drawn. It would not have taken any- 
one except Siegfried very long to decide the 
matter, but he seemed in a fierce state of un- 
certainty. 

From his post on the rug Cossack had been 
watching. These moods of his little master 
were not new to him, but they always troubled 
him. He had been thinking that something 
should be done to mend matters, and he made 


THE DOG GIVES HIS OPINION OF A PICTURE. 1 33 

up his mind that this something mmst be done 
at once, if he had to do it himself. 

He arose and went over to the sofa and 
looked down upon the picture at which his little 
master was looking. 

There was this comfort that the boy had 
always gotten from his dog friend ; he took all 
of Siegfried’s trouble just as seriously as Sieg- 
fried himself took it. And, if you will think a 
moment, you will see that the dog had learned 
the very innermost secret of sympathy — the 
secret that so many humans go stumbling all 
through life without learning, wondering all the 
time why things go so wrong about them. 

Cossack bent his head down over the picture. 
This is what he saw : 

A figure of a man that was fairly well drawn, 
except for an unusual something which neither 
the dog nor Siegfried himself had ever seen in 
any other picture, or, for that matter, that any 
one had ever seen in any man who has ever 
lived or walked. 

The dog bent his head still lower. Something 
was wrong; he knew that. But whether his 
life in a studio had made him critical, or interest 
in all that his little master did helped him to 
understand things, does not matter. ’Fried was 
in trouble, and the picture was the cause. 

Cossack studied it well. He turned his head 
first upon one side and then the other. He 
lifted one ear, then the other, and finally both 


134 


COSSACK. 


ears. But the difficulty did not seem less. 
Look at it from whatever point he might, the 
picture would not come right. 

Suddenly, as if he had made up his mind as 

to what should be 
done, he opened 
his mouth, and, 
with the air of one 
who has found the 
right thing to do 
and has the cour- 
age to do it, he 
drew his big 
tongue across the 
very middle of the 
sheet. 

Siegfried gave a 
cry of horror and 
his father has- 
tened to his side. 

‘ ^ Another one 
o f your experi- 
ments in anat- 
omy,” he asked, 
as he looked upon the paper, ‘ ‘ and good Cos- 
sack has settled the matter by wiping it out.” 

He broke into a merry laugh and patted the 
head of the dog. 

But the boy did not seem so well pleased. 
He gazed ruefully at the figure on the paper, 
whose middle was a damp smear of charcoal. 



COSSACK’S CRITICISM. 


THE DOG GIVES HIS OPINION OF A PICTURE. I 35 

Then the artist put his finger under the boy’s 
chin. 

Your picture does not ‘ hold together,’ ” he 
said, kindly. 

Maybe he was an anarchist and had a bomb 
in his pocket,” ’hTied said at last. But, truly, 
papa, this was not so bad. It was only that in- 
stead of having both arms bent toward the front 
of his body one went around the other way.” 

‘‘O, mannchen! ” laughed the big papa; 
while Cossack, quite satisfied with his own part 
in the matter, stood with a broad grin on his 
face and his tail wagging self-approval so 
strongly that it shook his whole body. 

'‘You see,” explained Siegfried, trying hard 
to look very serious, and as if the subject were 
one of deep importance, "in time of war it 
would be good. Nobody could come up behind 
a soldier and stab him in the back if he had a 
sword in each hand, and if one hand swung 
around behind him.” 

' ' But a soldier shouldn’t be overcareful about 
his back,” said the papa. 

Then he began to turn over the sheets that 
were on the desk. There were men and boys 
who were put together in ways that would have 
startled the most patient anatomist. 

" Here is a man,” he said, "whose body is all 
out of sorts. One arm comes out from the mid- 
dle of his chest and the other is fastened to his 
spinal column.” 


136 


COSSACK. 


“That is so he can get through a crowd,” ex- 
plained the boy, anxiously. ‘ ‘ A man needs to 
have so much room for his shoulders, you know, 
if he is broad.” 

“Yes, that’s so. It would be easy to slip 
through life, but would it be manly? We must 
be willing to fight for a place, and when we have 
gotten it we must fight to hold it if we are wor- 
thy of it. Ah, my boy, my little boy, does the 
father talk too gravely? Cossack needs a run, 

I need a walk, and there is yet an hour and a 
half before my old gentleman comes. Get on 
your hat and we’ll fiy to the park.” 

He slipped off the old studio coat, rolled it 
into a ball, and threw it across the room ; then 
he picked the little lad up in his arms, letting 
the board and charcoal slip to the floor. 

The dog knew what this meant. He ran to 
another corner and, standing upon his hinder 
legs, caught his muzzle off from its hook and 
shook it mightily, with fierce growls. He hated 
the muzzle, but he knew that there was no going 
out without it, so, while he brought it willingly, 
he never let an opportunity pass for punishing it. 

Another moment and they were off. They 
flew through the streets until they came to the 
park ; then the papa hooked a leading strap into 
Cossack’s collar, and they hurried up to see the 
old shepherd, with his steady-going collie at 
his heels, out upon the pasture looking after the 
sheep. 


THE DOG GIVES HIS OPINION OF A PICTURE. I 37 

Siegfried and Cossack started for a run upon 
the green, and came back with the blood bounding 
through their bodies and the cheeks of the little 
master so bright that a good many people turned 
to look after him. 

‘‘ Take a subject for your charcoal, my Sieg- 
fried, and study it well. We must be back in 
twenty minutes.” 

ril take the dear old shepherd,” said the 

boy. 

And be sure you notice carefully where his 
legs and arms belong,” said the papa, with an 
indulgent smile. 

10 


138 


COSSACK. 


III. 

SIEGFRIED HEARS ABOUT A HERO. 

T he day came for the second lesson in the 
Children’s Art School, but Siegfried did 
not once speak of it. 

He stayed close to his father. He said noth- 
ing, but followed him about like a child of three 
years — up to the easel, then back again to catch 
the effect of each finishing touch. He did not 
get in the way, but at the same time no motion 
of the deft hand, no touch of the long brush 
escaped him. He seemed to feel that there was 
so much to be learned in the quiet studio from 
the tall, restless figure that it was not needful to 
go beyond the four walls. 

The father was lost in his work. It was not 
strange to him, this attitude of the child. He 
was used to it, and he liked it better than any- 
thing else in the world. Indeed, he would not 
have thought much of life if the little figure had 
been wiped out of it, as he sometimes wiped them 
out from his canvas. The great studio without 
the sunny face to carry brightness into every 
corner ? It would have taken on the hue of the 
dingiest colors upon his palette. 

Luncheon passed quietly and with no refer- 


SIEGFRIED HEARS ABOUT A HERO. 1 39 

ence to the children’s class, for which Siegfried 
was grateful. 

When they returned to the studio the artist 
took the boy in his arms, sat down, and looked 
intently at the picture again. 

It represents my old gentleman, does it not? 
Calm, a little quizzical, well kept, well fed, com- 
fortable, not too generous, quite content with 
life and with himself — hey, my mannchen?” 

think so,” said Siegfried, as gravely as a 
man of forty could have spoken. 

Then with an air of singularly sweet comrade- 
ship the tall man turned to the child. 

And now, about your own work,” he said. 

Where are the arms and the legs to-day? I 
must begin, at once, a straightforward course 
in anatomy with you. We’ll have a real skele- 
ton — ugh ! and a manikin that we can take 
apart in a most ghostly fashion. You shall 
learn bones and muscles, and hunt them out in 
your own little body. It will never do to let 
you go on in this crazy fashion. We are told 
not to give knowledge to a child until his mind 
is ready for it. But yours is not only ready, it 
is manufacturing to suit itself. What new com- 
bination have you tried to-day? What have you 
been doing ? ” 

Just watching you; that’s all.” 

Then something in the boy’s face revealed 
all that had been passing in his mind. 

The father looked at him intently. 


140 


COSSACK. 


‘‘ This is the day for the children's class with 
the gentle Quakeress," he said. 

Siegfried nodded. 

'' And my boy is trying to wheedle me into 
letting him play truant." 

Siegfried slid down upon his feet, and stand- 
ing thus with his face on a level with his father’s 
face, he laid one childish hand upon either 
shoulder and looked — one pair of blue eyes into 
the other’s. 

I want to learn it from you," he said. 

‘‘ That is sweetest flattery and very pleasant 
to me. But there is another reason." 

I don’t want to go." 

‘‘ And that is not all." 

^ ^ They look at me as if I were a bear. They 
make it hard with little things that I can’t tell 
so as to make them sound hard — nudges and 
sniggers. O, I know how little they are, and 
I’m ashamed about caring. But I can’t help 
caring. It’s dreadful! ’’ 

The boyish face looked very woe-begone. 
The father took it kindly between his hands 
and drew it close to his own for a moment. 

This is not the way to make you brave," he 
said. 

Then followed a few more questions and the 
frankest of answers. 

‘‘ I understand it all. But it is what you 
need. You must rub against other children and 
learn to get on in life. I have kept you too 


SIEGFRIED HEARS ABOUT A HERO. I4I 

much to myself. I am to blame. Still, do not 
disappoint me now.’' 

The child looked as if he were likely to disap- 
point not only his father but himself. He shook 
his head and drew in his lip to keep it from 
trembling. 

‘ ' Let me tell you what your name means in 
German. It is from siegen, to conquer, and 
Friede, peace. In the Swedish, also, the name 
means victory. The one who bore it first was 
the hero in the great song of the Norseland — 
our Fatherland, mannchen — and the Song of 
Siegfried is one of the wonderful stories of the 
world. 

He was the bravest and strongest of human 
warriors — brave of heart, strong of hand and 
foot. He did not know that there was such a 
thing as fear. Mimi, a dwarf, who reared him 
because his own father was dead, was a cowardly 
creature who tried to make him afraid. But 
Siegfried only laughed and asked what fear was 
that it should trouble him. Then the dwarf told 
him, in his most fearsome manner, that it was 
a grizzly grewsomeness, and said that Sieg- 
fried would feel it one day and perhaps die of it 
if he ever met the great dragon who guarded the 
Rhine-gold. But the boy laughed again. And 
when he grew to be a young man he slew the 
dragon with the sword left to him by his father. 
The name of the sword was Needful. It was so 
strong that Siegfried could cleave an anvil in 


142 


COSSACK. 


two with it, and so sharp that he could cut soft 
wool as it floated upon the water.’' 

The artist paused. The eyes of the child had 
brightened and his boyish form had straightened 
itself. His German love of mystery held him 
until the story was done. Then, as he waited, 
and the father did not speak, he came to know 
that there had been a purpose in the story, and 
he smiled faintly. 

If there were only one dragon, papa! But 
seven boys and flve girls ! It is really a grizzly 
grewsomeness. Then I haven’t any sword ; and 
if I had, they’d laugh at me. It will be easy to 
get on when I am a man, but this is different.” 

‘ ‘ Whatever kind of boy you are now you will 
be that kind of man. And think! if you are 
not able to meet seven artist men and flve artist 
ladies some day, that will, indeed, be dreadful.” 

Well, I must do it then. It — it is probably 
about — time — to — go. ” 

''I would go with you, mannchen, but it 
would not be good for you.” 

With a brave effort the child pulled himself to- 
gether and started for his cap. Cossack jumped 
up gleefully, but the little master shook his head. 

'‘Did the other Siegfried have a dog?” he 
asked. 

"No.” 

" Then you can’t go.” He gave the dog an 
affectionate caress. 

The father smiled. 


SIEGFRIED HEARS ABOUT A HERO. I43 

'' Come here, mannchen,” he said. I am 
not going to give you a sword, but here is some- 
thing you will like better.” 

He opened a cabinet drawer and held some- 
thing toward the child. 

Siegfried’s eyes sparkled. The sight was 
enough to make any boy’s eyes sparkle if they 
had the least bit of sparkle in them, for the hand 
held a beautiful and expensive pocketknife, 
one which had been given to the artist by an ad- 
miring sitter, and was of such exquisite work- 
manship that it had to be carried in a little 
pocketcase of buckskin, silver clasped. The 
boy looked longingly at it and half took it, then 
he withdrew his hand. 

I am not brave,” he said ; I do not deserve 
it; I have been afraid.” 

But the father slid it into one of the pockets. 

‘‘ It is not to be used for harmful things,” he 
said. It is only to frighten away fear.” 

Then he ^stooped and with womanly gentleness 
tied the knot of soft blue silk over again, and 
smoothed back wdth his big hand a lock of the 
bright hair, and stood in the doorway with a 
restraining hand upon Cossack’s collar until the 
little footsteps had died away. 

The dog looked into his face and begged to go. 

‘‘ We must let our brave mannchen go alone, 
Cossack, or he will never conquer in the battle 
with Fear ; and a child’s battle is as hard as a 
dog’s battle, Cossack, or as a man’s.” 


144 


COSSACK. 


IV. 

COSSACK TO THE RESCUE. 

T he lesson proved to be quite as dreadful 
as Siegfried had feared. The prettiest 
girl watched his work with admiring eyes, and, 
as she watched, the face of Smudge grew black 
with a blackness that charcoal could never 
attain. 

He tore a piece from his drawing-paper and 
wrote a little note, which he sent, slyly, down 
the line of boys. 

This is what Smudge’s little note said : 

“ i think that new chap dorter have a nuther 
kind of lessen he ante got no man about him 
come along tonite and see me lick him. 

‘‘James Harding.” 

The other boys were not so troubled about 
the new chap as Smudge was. They had not 
the same reason ; but since there was fun ahead 
they were human enough to want to see it ; so 
when the bell rung for dismissal there was un- 
usual haste in getting out. 

Siegfried was detained by the teacher, who 
was gratified at having the son of an artist in 


COSSACK TO THE RESCUE. 


145 


her class, and was very ranch interested in the 
quality of work he was doing. As he went 
down the stairs he slid his hand into his pocket 
and drew out the beautiful knife and took a long 
and loving peep at it. It was really worth strug- 
gling for ; but if things went on in the present 
way he was afraid he could never win it. 

He noticed as he turned into the street that 
all of the boys of the school had formed them- 
selves into a group, and that they were go- 
ing on about half a block ahead of him. The 
central figure was Smudge. He was talking 
in a very excited manner, and as he talked 
Siegfried saw that the others cast glances back 
at him. 

It was not comfortable to have them do so. 
Indeed, without being the least bit of a coward, 
he felt that it was very uncomfortable. What 
had he done and what had he not done? He 
grew more disturbed as he went on. Presently 
he tried to whistle, and every boy knows what 
that means; but the attempt failed miserably. 
Then he said to himself that ‘^Siegfried’' meant 
courage and victory. 

Presently the boys ahead of him loitered. 
They were evidently waiting for him, but their 
attitudes were anything rather than inviting. 

It was a cross street under the elevated rail- 
way. As Siegfried neared the little group the 
boys fell back upon either side, all except 
Smudge, who stood in the middle of the walk 


146 


COSSACK. 


and threw ofif his hat and began pushing up his 
sleeves. As he did so he sung out : 

Come on, you girl-boy! Come on, I say!” 

These threatening gestures were directed at 
Siegfried. There was no mistaking them. 

''We might as well settle it out now,” cried 
Smudge, with an extra flourish of his arms. 
" Come on, I sa)^!” 

Siegfried did not know what it was that needed 
settling out, but as Smudge sprang for the blue 
necktie and tore it off, he realized that a fight 
was on, and fired up at once. 

His opponent was half a head taller, but Sieg- 
fried threw off his cap and shouted back, 

" Settle it out, then, if you want to.” 

Smudge’s fist dealt the first blow. In another 
moment the two had clenched in a desperate boy 
struggle. 

The others gathered around. They had come 
out as allies of vSmudge, and as such cheered him 
whenever he made a good hit; but they could 
not help admiring the way the smaller figure 
bent and straightened to its task ; so an involun- 
tary word of encouragement occasionally reached 
Siegfried’s ear, such as, 

" That’s it, little one, he’s yours now.” 

Smudge had used up so much of his energy in 
threats and in working up feeling against the 
other, and he was so blinded by mad passion, 
that the work upon his side was of the reckless, 
bravado sort. 


COSSACK TO THE RESCUE. 


147 


Siegfried, though it was his first battle, was 
working away in a sturdy, manly, though most 
unscientific fashion, taking advantage of every 
chance, and worrying his opponent into a still 
higher state of rage. By a quick grip — his 
shorter stature helped him in this — he caught 
Smudge about the waist, threw him to the 
ground, and would surely have come off victo- 
rious had not the latter meanly caught at his 
throat with both hands and clutched it until the 
smaller hands loosened their hold, and the smaller 
boy fell back nearly lifeless. 

At this instant a terrific howl of rage aroused 
the group. It scattered as if struck by a whirl- 
wind, as Cossack bounded into the little ring. 
He sprang upon Smudge, caught him by the 
collar, dragged him away, and shook him until 
his lips turned ghastly and his teeth chattered 
with terror. 

‘ ‘ Take — him — off, you — cow — w — w — ards ! ’ ' 
he yelled in the most abject fear. But no one 
dared to interfere with the angry dog. 

Siegfried opened his eyes. Two of the boys 
were bending over him. One held his head 
upon his knee and fanned him with his hat. 

Just then he recognized a voice. His father 
called sharply to Cossack, and running forward 
compelled the dog to loosen his grip of the boy, 
whom he raised to his feet, and then turning, 
saw with astonishment that the other chief actor 
in the drama was his own sunny-faced little boy. 


148 


COSSACK. 


He stood for a moment without speaking. 

Siegfried attempted to rise. His father 
stooped and lifted him to his feet. 

'' A street brawl/’ he said, in grieved amaze- 
ment, and my boy one of the brawlers !” 

‘‘O, papa!” said Siegfried, leaning against 
him, for he was not yet himself, and somehow 
nothing could make him afraid of this tall man, 
whom he loved so dearly. He was so sure al- 
ways to get at the right of every matter, and so 
just and tender when he did get at it. didn’t 
think. It was so sudden and — ” 

‘^That’s right, sir,” said one of the boys; 
‘‘he was bullied into it. He didn’t mean to 
fight, but, you see, he had to. And he’s a good 
one, I tell you. You’d ought to be proud of 
him.” 

“ That’s so, sir. He’s plucky, I tell you.” 

The tide had turned. “Siegfried” meant 
“ victory ” for this one too. 

Another boy made his handkerchief into a 
whisk and began to brush Siegfried’s clothes. 

“Well, what was the matter?” asked the 
artist. “There must have been some reason 
for all this.” 

“ No, not really,” said another; “ only he’s a 
new boy, you know.” 

“And he draws better than the rest of us,” 
added another. 

“And while we didn’t care so much about 
that,” said a third, “ vSmudge did; and Smudge 


COSSACK TO THE RESCUE. 


149 


— that’s him, sir — Smudge said that there wasn’t 
any man about your boy, and he told us to come 
’long and see how he’d lick him.” 

Smudge was very much interested in his 
clothes during all this, and did not seem to 
enjoy such a free and forcible presentation of 
the case. 

‘ ' But he got licked himself till he was mean 
and choked the new boy.” 

‘‘Well,” said the artist, “who remembered 
his own boyhood, and besides was immensely 
pleased at the words spoken for Siegfried, “he 
has had full payment. Everything is evened up 
now.” 

No one could help smiling at the figure James 
Harding, alias Smudge, was cutting. He tried 
to sneak away, but Cossack stood with his nose 
painfully close and growled ferociously if the 
youngster moved never so little, threatening 
another spring if he but turned his head toward 
the little master. 

“ I see plainly,” said Siegfried’s father, “ that 
you boys only need to get better acquainted ; 
that’s all. My studio is only one block away. 
Come and see how we live. Art students should 
be good comrades, you know.” 

He laid one hand upon the shoulder of 
Smudge. 

“ Come,” he said, “ we want you along. We 
are not such bad fellows, and I have a right to 
ask something of you.” 


ISO 


COSSACK. 


Then he turned his face upon the others, look- 
ing frankly at them in the way that wins a boy 
and that bound his own boy to him so closely. 

‘‘ The studio is a big place. Plenty of room, 
and you shall see rare old pictures of battles 
fought long ago. Siegfried and I haven’t many 
boy friends. We want you. Come on.” 

None of them knew how it happened, and 
if anyone had told them what they were do- 
ing they would have denied it and turned 
toward home ; but an invitation to a real studio 
was a great temptation, and the personality of 
this tall man was so winning that before they 
knew it they were in the great, beautiful room, 
and were drinking lemonade brought in by a 
stiff little old woman in a stiff little black silk 
gown, and were looking at some very, very old 
pictures that were taken out of black carved 
chests especially for them to see, and were ex- 
amining swords and old Revolutionary fowling 
pieces with great interest. 

Mr. Hahnn looked at Siegfried and Smudge. 

‘‘You two are not growing handsome,” he 
said. “I can’t admire your combination of 
color. The addition of blue, black, yellow, and 
green to one patch is not to be commended. 
Run out and ask Lisbeth to mend you up.” 

They came back looking at least no worse than 
when they went out, and smelling very much like 
concentrated apothecary shops. 

Then he let the little company go. 


COSSACK TO THE RESCUE. 151 

Come in and see us often/' he said ; '' we’re 
two lonely old fellows. We need young com- 
pany.” 

They touched their caps and were off. 

And what do you suppose was the subject of 
Siegfried’s next drawing? 

Why, a boy with no head to be fisticuffed and 
no throat to be clutched and choked. Just a boy 
whose face looked calmly out from his shirt front, 
and whose coat buttoned straight over to the 
middle of where his head might have been ; a 
boy with no wide white linen collar to get 
crumpled and no floating silk necktie to be torn 
away by angry fingers; a very snug, trim pat- 
tern of a boy, but a pattern that no boy in his 
senses would want his own flesh and blood cut 
after. 


152 


COSSACK. 


V. 

COSSACK DOES NOT APPROVE. 

L essons at the little art school became as 
^ pleasant to Siegfried as they had before 
been unpleasant. 

He admired the prettiest girl, to be sure, but 
in the simple way in which all real lovers of 
beauty must admire it. He was glad that she 
was pretty. It was pleasant to look at her. Her 
gowms were dainty and her ways were sweet 
and childlike ; but because he could see all this 
he did not think that she must not smile as 
readily at the others as at him. Perhaps when 
he grew older — but you know that he was 
still a little fellow. 

It was this simplicity in Siegfried, and because 
he did not seem to know that he could be at- 
tractive himself, which drove the bitter feelings 
out of James Harding’s heart. Then, once when 
the Quaker teacher held up a drawing done by 
the latter, Siegfried exclaimed so honestly, O, 
isn’t it good!” that the last lingering shadow 
was driven away. The approval of ‘‘the little 
artist,” as some were beginning to call him, was 
worth a good deal. 

And Smudge was not so bad a fellow after all. 


COSSACK DOES NOT APPROVE. 


153 


His home life was not what it should have been. 
Indeed, he didn’t have much of a home, and was 
growing up with the idea that a man must make 
himself a man by fighting everybody and by 
pulling down everything that stands in his 
way. It’s a bad way to begin life, but there 
are several other persons in the world who 
not only began that way, but are still going 
on in it. 

At the studio a skeleton stalked in one day 
and got himself hung by a ring in the top of his 
head in a curtained corner, and a manikin came 
along to keep him company. 

Then the lessons in anatomy began. 

Cossack was very much disturbed at these new- 
comers. They were very singular guests, to say 
the least, and they seemed to have no intention 
of leaving. 

He did not approve of a gentleman whose 
modesty permitted him to hang about in his 
bones, and he approved still less of one who 
could have his fiesh taken off and laid one side, 
as one would take off his coat and trousers, and 
the fact that he did not seem to suffer under this 
operation was another thing against him. He 
was altogether too placid. There was such a 
thing as being of too angelic a temper. 

Cossack had a notion that if for any reason he 
were to spring at a man and attempt to remove 
his flesh, it would be considered a very serious 
11 


154 


COSSACK. 


matter ; so his disgust with the patient stranger 
grew to such a degree that he always showed 
his teeth whenever the manikin — as he often 
did during the lessons in anatomy — underwent 
his series of apparently painless surgical opera- 
tions. 

And then when Siegfried stood before the long 
cheval glass, arrayed only in a pair of silk swim- 
ming trunks, and bent his lithe boyish body into 
all sorts of shapes and positions and became al- 
most an acrobat or a contortionist or any other 
dreadful thing in his effort to find in himself the 
same muscles that the horrid manikin had, Cos- 
sack began to be afraid that a most frightful 
thing was about to happen. 

This thing seemed so surely on its way that it 
sent a grizzly fear into his heart, and he began 
to study the manikin most intently, to see if 
there were the least possible sign visible that 
such a horrible creature had once been a sunny- 
haired little artist boy. 

Cossack was really very anxious about the 
company his little master was keeping. He 
pondered over it a good many times when he 
should have been asleep. 

He preferred the old pictures, with their sur- 
prising arrangement of legs and arms, to the 
skeleton and the manikin. He sometimes even 
longed for the old restless hours when the sunny 
hair was tossed up like a custard, and the two 
little lines seemed trying to coax the nose into 


COSSACK DOES NOT APPROVE. I 55 

a pleasant stroll a little farther up on the boyish 
forehead. 

But they did not return, and Cossack laid their 
flight, and rightly, too, at the dangling feet of 
those two who had evidently come to stay, but 
who never sat themselves properly down upon 
chair or sofa, but were supported in a very un- 
dignified and ungraceful manner by a ring in 
the top of each ghostly head. 

Siegfried was learning the reason of things. 
He no longer tried to fasten an arm where there 
was neither visible nor invisible means of sup- 
port. The machinery of the human body 
was a constant wonder and delight to him, 
and he spent, according to Cossack, altogether 
too many hours in the company of the two dis- 
reputables. 

Cossack approved of all the boys, with one 
exception, and was as delighted as could be to 
welcome them when they came for games, draw- 
ing, or for any of the hundred jolly things that 
boys can think of when they are together in an 
interesting, mysterious place, a place which fur- 
nishes very unmysterious supplies of fruit, nuts, 
wholesome cakes, and chocolate, brought in and 
set upon the table by a stiff little old woman in 
a stiff little black silk gown. 

Yes, Cossack approved of all of Siegfried's new 
friends except the skeleton and the manikin and 
Smudge. He kept close watch in the latter di- 
rection, and whenever that young worthy took 


COSSACK. 


156 

on familiar airs with the little master he was 
pretty sure to feel a cold nose against his leg — a 
nose so very cold that even through a well-woven 
stocking it started a chill that never stopped 
until it had indulged in a lively waltz up and 
down Smudge’s spinal column. 


NEW EXPERIMENTS. 


157 


VI. 

NEW EXPERIMENTS. 

W HEN the next spring came the three — 
Mr. Hahnn, Siegfried, and Cossack — 
went sketching for whole days. 

The stiff little old woman packed the most 
surprising and delicious lunches away, along 
with the sketching pads and the water-color 
boxes. Long tramps followed — tramps through 
sunny fields and over rough hillsides, and beside 
swift little streams which paused every now and 
then in some shaded nook, as if they were trying 
to lull the trout to sleep. Sun and wind deep- 
ened the rosy cheeks of the boy into a dusky 
red. His flesh grew hard, and his legs swift and 
strong from long runs with his fleet-footed play- 
fellow. 

They were charming days. In them Siegfried 
and Cossack learned wonderful things about trees 
and plants and birds and squirrels and bugs. 
The tall man, whom they both loved .so well, 
told these things to them. He seemed to be on 
very intimate and kindly terms with every liv- 
ing thing that met them during these sketching 
tramps. 

Still, though Cossack was made very happy 


158 


COSSACK. 


because the skeleton and the manikin were never 
invited to go along — and you can imagine that 
this was a great relief to him — there grew out of 
these same tramps another thing which added 
greatly to his anxiety of mind. For, you see, it 
opened up a new line of experimenting to Sieg- 
fried. He began to wonder a great deal. He 
lay out on the grass and looked up and wondered 
at the height and blueness of the sky. He 
wondered at the depth and brownness of the 
pools. He wondered at the arrangement of 
color that spread itself out upon every side, and 
that seemed to have a reason — though he could 
not make it out — for turning into blue or green 
or gold. Why need the grass and the trees be 
always green in springtime, softened into grays 
and blues, of course, as they went off into the 
distance, but really and truly green when near at 
hand? 

He began to work, on rainy days or whenever 
anything else kept them at home, on various 
pictures which nobody but himself and Cossack 
saw. And Cossack, feeling the importance of his 
position as accepted critic to the little master, 
tried very hard — O very, very hard to approve. 
But, though he remembered his best dog man- 
ners and let his love come in to influence the 
decisions, there were times when his soul was 
troubled. For, if you will believe it, Siegfried 
was attempting with his boyish hands to create 
a new heaven and a new earth. Old things passed 






he began to wonder a great deal. 












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NEW EXPERIMENTS. l6l 

away from his sketching block and a new reign 
of terror, in the guise of unexpected color, began. 
There were great stretches of violet-tinted grass, 
enlivened with trees whose foliage was creamy 
white, while over all there spread a wide, far- 
reaching sky, laid on with delicately toned touches 
of emerald green. 

After a day by the sea Cossack was expected 
to admire a beach painted in translucent greens. 
It was washed by waves of golden brown, which 
tossed themselves up into cool, gray foam about 
clover-colored rocks and sky-blue cliffs. Green 
cows and blue horses and magenta sheep and 
violet pigs roamed and rooted in the daintiest 
lavender pastures and laid themselves down be- 
side pink waters. The artist papa masqueraded 
with hair and mustache of ultramarine blue, 
and with gleaming crimson eyes. While Cos- 
sack — poor fellow ! lost his long coat of silvery 
white and put on the most beautiful Nile green 
fur, with markings of old rose. 

Siegfried held this latter picture out for the 
dog’s approval, but Cossack closed his eyes. 
Siegfried got down from the deep sofa corner 
and carried it over and held it close to Cossack’s 
nose. The dog gazed at it a moment in a state 
of bewildered uncertainty, then as the meaning 
grew clear to him he arose and went to the far- 
thest corner of the room and laid down. 

'‘You needn’t act so,” said Siegfried, a little 
nettled. "You might have been made that way. 


COSSACK. 


162 

then what would you have said to yourself, I’d 
like to know ? ” 

At any other time the tone would have nearly 
broken the dog’s heart ; but he felt that this was 
the one instance in a whole lifetime when he had 
a right to express to the full all the stern disap- 
proval that stirred him. 

The skeleton and the manikin had done it. 
Bad company brought poor Tray into trouble, 
and it was proving too much for the bonnie boy 
artist. He sighed deeply and turned his quick 
sharp eyes upon the little master with a look 
of wondering pity, then he curled his cleanly- 
built shoulders and laid his long, intelligent head 
upon his paws. 

It was really a very serious matter. Boys 
whose arms came out from between their shoul- 
der blades, and whose faces were in the middle 
of their shirt fronts, were bad enough in all con- 
science, but a Nile green Russian wolfhound 
was something that no self-respecting dog could 
accept. 

The tall artist turned from his easel and gazed 
down upon the two. 

‘‘ It looks like a misunderstanding,” he said. 

Cossack began at once to feel a sense of relief. 
Approval of such crazy whims would certainly 
never come from this quarter. 

Siegfried frankly showed his sketches — all his 
queer late sketches, in fact — and laid open his 
boyish heart with its curious questionings ; then 




SOMETHING THAT NO SELF-RESPECTING DOG COULD ACCEPT. 


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NEW EXPERIMENTS. 165 

the father saw that it was time for another class 
of lessons. He began at once in simple language 
to explain the theory of light and color. 

Cossack was very glad to learn all these things, 
glad that he and Siegfried had so wise a head to 
solve their problems and to bring them together 
again, for these color freaks upon the drawing 
paper had grieved him more than he had been 
willing to admit. 


COSSACK. 


1 66 


VII. 

A SHADOW. 

W ITH the coming of autumn Siegfried, 
instead of attending the little art class, 
went every morning to a private grammar school 
for boys. 

Neither he nor Cossack approved of this. 
Cossack found that while the art class had but 
three sessions each week, the grammar school 
had five, and poor Siegfried found to his sorrow 
that Latin and mathematics were not quite such 
inviting fields in which to revel with experiment 
as color and crayon had been. 

And this was not all. There were times even 
when he was at home of which Siegfried spent a 
long hour or two over books brought from the 
school, dry looking books, with never a hint of 
a picture between their two covers, books that 
had no right to crowd themselves into a studio. 
You can imagine that an artist dog, like Cossack, 
did not find much pleasure in looking over his 
little master’s shoulder when such uninteresting 
volumes met his gaze. 

In the old sweet days before this going to 
school began they had often occupied a rug to- 
gether, Siegfried stretched at full length, with his 



IN THE OLD SWEET DAYS. 






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A SHADOW. 


169 


head resting upon one hand, and Cossack, sitting 
beside him, looking and listening and learning a 
great deal from the questions and answers that 
passed between the boy on the rug and the tall 
man in the curious old chair in front of the 
easel. 

If Cossack could have had his way every book 
that was ever printed would have been at least 
half full of pictures. Then what a day for the 
illustrators ! And, according to Cossack, the 
pictures, being of first importance, should have 
been made first, and the little wriggling lines — 
so alike, yet sounding so different when read out 
of different books — should have been added sim- 
ply as a set-off to the more important work. 

His admiration for his little comrade rose to a 
very high pitch when the margins of these trou- 
blesome books began to blossom with quaint 
figures of men and boys, beasts and birds ; and 
when the divisions came to be marked off with 
delicate tailpieces, made up of bits of landscape 
or water drawn from some memory in the boy- 
ish mind of those long tramps, memories which 
made it all the harder to endure the present 
captivity. 

Still, because the big papa had once gone to 
school, Siegfried worked away with a reasonable 
amount of patience and success. 

And Cossack? Well, Cossack accepted the 
situation simply because he had to. 

To be sure it added to his list of acquaintance, 
12 


COSSACK. 


170 

for other boys found their way up to the beauti- 
ful old room. Still the mornings were long and 
tedious without the manly little figure about, and 
it was often very hard to get through them. His 
only comfort lay in the fact that the skeleton and 
manikin were getting slighted too. He used to 
go into the corner sometimes when the room 
was very still and pull the curtain aside with his 
teeth, just to make sure that they had not started 
off arm in arm for school. And when he was 
saddest and loneliest the grin of content upon 
each ghostly face nearly drove him wild. But 
there were compensations. Siegfried was al- 
ways glad to get back again, and surely that 
was better than if he had been wandering off 
because of his own sweet will. 

The three used sometimes to sit together in 
the evening by the great fireplace when the gas 
was turned low, and plan and plan for the com- 
ing Saturday. The Saturdays were days left 
over from the jolly summertime. Many an all- 
day tramp, whether in fair or cloudy weather, 
brightened the long and busy weeks. 

Siegfried’s entrance into the school had not 
been marked with anything like his former ex- 
periences. This may have been because there 
was no prettiest girl to play Helen’s part in boy- 
ish hearts, and it may have been because Sieg- 
fried was wearing his hair cropped close, in the 
regulation fashion, and looked every inch a boy, 
genuine, sunny-hearted, and brave. 



HE USED TO PULL THE CURTAIN ASIDE TO MAKE SURE THAT THEY HAD NOT STARTED 

OFF FOR SCHOOL.” 




A SHADOW. 


173 


The other boys, as boys sometimes will, came 
to be proud of him. On various pretexts they 
carried his books home to show the strange little 
illuminations of pen, pencil, and brush, and they 
“bet that there wasn’t anything he could not 
draw, from an elephant to a clover blossom or a 
mouse trap.” 

“ Still,” said a quiet boy as he sat devouring 
one of these books with his earnest eyes, ‘ ‘ he 
doesn’t so much make you see the outside of a 
thing as he makes you feel the inside of it. He 
told me once that he ought to have been born a 
Greek and have lived hundreds of years ago. 
Because, you know, the Greeks believed that 
everything had a spirit.” 

“Mouse traps and such?” queried his mis- 
chievous little sister. 

“And Siegfried says that everything seems 
to him to be that way; that he can’t help it. 
It’s because he is German, he supposes, and the 
poetry in the hearts of the Germans makes them 
feel so, even when they try not to. 

‘ ‘ He says it is the spirit that he draws ; that 
he can’t make a man until he has made up his 
mind about the kind of spirit the man carries 
around inside of him ; then he puts the outside 
down just so as to tell how the inside looks.” 

“Sort of blind, isn’t it?” asked the little 
sister. 

“ Yes; maybe it does sound that way when I 
say it, but it didn’t when he said it. He doesn’t 


174 


COSSACK. 


talk it to the other fellows, but once in a while 
he does to me, and I can’t help believing that 
he believes what he says when I look at him ; 
you would too.” 

O, no doubt ! But I should think you’d feel 
‘ creepy ’ to be around with somebody who is 
studying your spirit all the time.” 

Although Siegfried was not the best in recita- 
tion, and did not stand at the head of his form, 
his understanding was so quick that the teachers 
came to be deeply interested in him. 

The head master was a man who had not ar- 
tistic talent, but what is worth as much to the 
world after it has the artist, and that is, the 
ability to appreciate it in others. One day when 
he had been reading and thinking about the old 
masters in art, he had occasion to speak of Sieg- 
fried to one of the tutors. It was in the pres- 
ence of some of the older boys, and as he 
opened his lips the words little master” came 
to them. 

They seemed so exact a fit that with a smile 
he spoke them. They were appreciated by the 
others, and when Siegfried was not present after 
that this name was used more frequently than 
the one given at his christening. 

It is a pity that any shadow should fall upon 
the bright picture made by these three lives. 
Not one of them was untrue. They did not 
need sorrow to make them rnore tender or lov- 


A SHADOW. 


175 


ing, and surely there was not a coward among 
them ; but something began creeping, creeping 
from out the distance, and growing darker and 
darker the nearer it came. 

Cossack was the first to notice it, and even he 
did not dream what it meant; but he was an- 
noyed one day to see that a couple of rooms at 
the side back of the long hall were being invaded 
by burly men and scrubbing women. 

The rooms had been so long unoccupied by 
anything save boxes and barrels, and by tables 
and chairs in various stages of bankruptcy, that 
he had come to think of them as belonging to 
the beautiful suite that crossed the front and ex- 
tended like an L far back over the little court. 
By some sleight of hand upon the part of the 
men the lumber that had filled the two rooms 
was all stowed into one, and the other was made 
habitable by the addition of the barest necessities 
for living. 

One evening when the three came in late from 
a stroll Cossack saw a figure lingering upon the 
threshold of this room. It was the figure of a 
man, small, dark, and evil-looking. As if it had 
some cruel purpose, it stood in the shadow and 
watched the three as they went gayly to their 
own door, and it bent as if it were listening to 
catch some familiar note in one of the voices, 
but it did not seem to be at all sure that it was 
finding that for which it sought. 

The others did not notice, they were so gay 


176 


COSSACK. 


and happ5^ but Cossack did. His love for the 
two gave him a sharper vision and a quicker ear. 
He stopped to watch, and as he stopped he drew 
his tall, lithe body to its full height, and shook 
his high, strong back to make sure of its 
strength. 

He remained in the hall until they called him 
into the studio. As he turned away he looked 
into the shadowed doorway and gave a long and 
threatening growl. 


THE SHADOW CREEPS CLOSER. 


177 


VIII. 


THE SHADOW CREEPS CLOSER. 
OSSACK found, to his great annoyance, 



that the threatening growl did not drive 


the small, dark stranger away; and though he 
showed his teeth at every chance meeting, the 
stranger could not be induced to come out boldly 
and risk a fight. 

He was never seen going in and out in the 
frank, open manner of a respectable, honest 
man. His hat always slouched over his face, 
and his small, gimlet eyes seemed as if they 
were boring holes through everything upon 
which they fell, they were so eager in their 
search after some hidden thing. He did not 
walk with the strong, firm step that Cossack re- 
spected in man or boy. He might go swiftly or 
slowly, but it was always with the tread of one 
who did not want to attract attention. 

Lisbeth noticed the shadow next. She felt it 
creeping toward the pleasant household, and was 
troubled. 

The stiff little old woman had been an upper 
servant since her girlhood in the paternal home 
of the artist, and when he came to America with 
his infant boy her loyalty to the interests of the 


178 


COSSACK. 


family made her leave the beloved Fatherland 
and cross the great sea to continue her service. 
One of her relatives who had sought the New 
World before her — a plump and wholesome 
madchen — came at once into the artist’s home 
to serve under Lisbeth, and to win her way deep 
into the stanch old heart; so, though Lisbeth 
lost many, she found one, and she was still in 
the service of the adored Herr. 

There were reasons why Lisbeth should be 
anxious at what was causing anxiety to Cossack, 
for Lisbeth knew of something in the past that 
Cossack did not know, something out of which a 
blow might be struck that would put out all the 
light of the present ; so, along with Cossack, she 
also kept watch. 

Katrina knew that her little relative was tidy, 
with all the patient tidiness of the German soul, 
but she came to wonder why the outer hall should 
need so many sweepings and dustings and scrub- 
bings, and why Lisbeth herself had to oversee 
this particular bit of work so constantly, and why 
she seemed more pleased if this work were not 
done too quickly and if double or treble the 
usual time were put upon it. Then, too, it had 
to be done at such unusual hours. The clock- 
work order of the household was broken in this 
instance. Early morning, late evening, at noon, 
in the forenoon, or when the afternoon sunshine 
streamed in at the broad window, all times and 
seasons came to be the same to Lisbeth. If 


THE SHADOW CREEPS CLOSER. 1 79 

there were a grain of dust on the wainscoting or 
a speck upon the window it must receive imme- 
diate attention. 

The pleasant-faced mMchen came to wonder 
if her stiff little relative were not getting out of 
sorts with life because of something in the air 
of the New World. Still, as this strangeness 
showed itself in only one thing, Katrina 
thought it best not to be greatly alarmed. 

It was surprising, too, how necessary a draught 
of air from the broad window in the outer hall 
became to Lisbeth. She kept her own door so 
constantly ajar that the stranger could hardly 
go in or out of his room without the knowledge 
of her bright little spectacled eyes. But she 
was such a small, inoffensive creature, and 
seemed so engrossed in making sure that the 
bouncing Katrina left no atom of dust anywhere, 
that he simply voted her an old nuisance, and 
went on his silent, stealthy way. 

The only person whom he seemed desirous of 
watching was the tall artist. But he seemed 
also very desirous that the tall man should not 
see him. He was engaged in some manual 
work, which he did in his own room. He 
carried parcels in and out, and sometimes for 
many minutes the steady blows of a hammer 
reached the listening ear of Lisbeth. 

After a time Herr Hahnn, also, came to know 
that there was a shadow, and that it was creep- 
ing very near. As he felt its nearness his 


i8o 


COSSACK. 


heart became chilled, his lips grew pale, his 
cheeks thin, and the blue eyes looked out from 
deep hollows under their brows. And he could 
hardly endure that the boy should go out of his 
sight or beyond the reach of his arms. 

Then Siegfried and Cossack began to miss 
the merry ring in his voice. And one night, 
after the boy had been long asleep, Cossack saw 
that he went through the private hall and 
knocked at Lisbeth’s door. 

The little old woman heard the footsteps. 
She had been expecting them for many days. 
They had not come, but she had waited evening 
after evening, patient and true, long after the 
rosy-cheeked madchen had stopped her chatter 
and dropped off into sound and healthful sleep. 

She opened the door and followed the tall form 
back into the studio. The fire was nearly out, 
and the shadows moved fitfully over the floor. 
She took the chair he set for her and crossed 
her thin old hands and looked up at him and 
waited. 

It has come,’' he said. 

Yes,” said Lisbeth. '' I know. It is here.” 

^‘And I must go,” said the artist, looking 
around. ‘‘ And I cannot take him, nor anyone, 
nor anything that is here. I must go alone.” 

She did not speak. 

'‘Lisbeth, I have trusted you, and now I 
must trust you with my boy. You know what 
he is to me. And he is much to you. I have 


THE SHADOW CREEPS CLOSER. l8l 

thought of this long and painfully. At first I 
thought I would go and offer money — all my 
earnings here, all my fortune in the Fatherland, 
everything except enough for our daily bread 
and a scant covering. But they do not want 
money, Lisbeth, they are after my life.’' 

The little old woman clutched her thin hands, 
but she said nothing. 

And there have been times, Lisbeth, when 
I have felt that I would take that sneaking 
wretch by the throat and shake the life out of 
him and throw him from me, as Cossack would 
throw a dead rat away. But it would do no 
good. He is not alone; he is but one. It 
would only bring the end sooner. And even a 
hunted life, while the boy lives, is better than 
death.” 

Yes,” said the little old woman, though her 
teeth almost chattered at the darkness of the 
face above her ; ' ‘ yes, it is better, much bet- 
ter.” 

And again I have planned to take the boy 
and fly to some desert place and live on with 
him until I die. But that would not be well for 
him. He is no ordinary child, Lisbeth. He 
has possibilities. There is noble blood in his 
veins, and he has all of his dead mother’s win- 
someness, and he has, also, her high ideals of 
life. He will live his life well. He will work, 
and he will do it well. I had thought that he 
could do it better if I were with him ; but it 


i 82 


COSSACK. 


must be otherwise. I want him to go on as he 
is. I must hear from him, once in a while, as 
long as I live ; and now that they have found me 
it may not be long. And I shall see him some- 
times, though I meet my death in doing it. 

^ ^ The money will be so that you can draw it 
for him. I want no third person coming in. 
He loves you, Lisbeth. He has not been with 
you much, but I am to blame for that. I was 
greedy of him ; and often, when he was smaller, 
he has started to go to ask you to tell him the 
German folk stories, and I have called him 
back and told them to him myself, until he has 
learned to stay with me. 

‘ ‘ You must not mind it, Lisbeth. You will not, 
for you understand. And you know, too, that all 
the time I felt that it might end with any day. 

‘ ‘ But I was coming almost to forget it ; or 
my fear was going to sleep. Happiness that 
the boy was growing to be all I had hoped 
helped it. But now I remember. Now I am 
fiercely awake.” 

He paused. It must be told that I am called 
back to the Fatherland to look after my estates ; 
that I choose to leave my boy in this life of the 
New World for a little — one year, perhaps two; 
then I will come for him, and he will go to 
Germany to take his place as one of the noble 
youths. This may make them lose the path. 
It may throw the bloodhounds off the scent, so 
that we can go on again, as before.” 


THE SHADOW CREEPS CLOSER. 1 83 

After waiting long and seeing that he did not 
speak, Lisbeth spoke slowly, as if taking an 
oath : 

''All that I have done I will still do. And 
all that I can do will be done in faith.’' 

"The second one is gone,” he said, at last. 

' ' I have found it out since this presence has 
been shadowing me. For a year he has been 
missing, and no trace is left. He may be off 
as I am going; but I do not think it. I 
fear for him. Still, he was wise. With a 
shadow over him he made no ties. He took no 
heart so near to his own that it would suffer if a 
blow came out of the shadow and struck him 
down. I am the third — the last.” 

Lisbeth had been turning deadly white. She 
began slipping to one side of the chair. 

He sprang to save her. 

" Dear, faithful Lisbeth !” he wSaid, as he placed 
her in an armchair and went swiftly to bring 
some water, "You are our dependence. I 
grieve at making it so hard for you.” 

" It will be but my duty,” she said. " And 
you will go at once? ” 

" Yes,” he answered, "I shall go at once.” 

Then he opened the door and watched her 
until she had entered her own room. 

' ' Only a broken little old woman to lean 
upon,” he said. " But her heart is true. God 
help her ! God help us all !” 


184 


COSSACK. 


IX. 

SEHR LIEBLICH.” 

S IEGFRIED was told very gently that the 
big papa was going away for a while, but 
that he must remain and go on in the accus- 
tomed way. 

His astonishment and grief were great. There 
was no satisfying him. He begged to go also, 
and pleaded with all his boyish ardor. He 
promised obedience in anything but this one 
thing of staying behind. He planned to study 
hours and hours every day, if that were the 
reason for the parting. It was easy to keep up 
with the classes. The papa could help him over 
hard places, and it would be a rare thing to 
have such a tutor. 

With his arms about his father’s neck and his 
face close to his, he coaxed and cajoled until it 
came to pass that something of the true reason 
must be told him. 

The artist held the boy at arm’s length and 
looked at him sadly and sternly. 

^ ‘ I am looking to see whether my boy is 
growing to be a man or an infant,” he said. 

But even this did not turn the loving little 
heart away. 


SEHR LIEBLICH/' 


I8S 


Maybe he is both/' he answered, slowly. 

' ' I am anything you want to call me, papa ; for 
I belong to you, even though I do act like a very, 
very little boy. I went to the art class when 
you wanted me to, and I go to the grammar 
school because you send me ; but when I come 
back I always find you. How can I have it that 
when I come home you will be gone? " 

The big artist took the little one in his arms. 

I must tell you," he said. I see that there 
is nothing I can tell you that would hurt you as 
much as to feel that I am willing to leave you. 

Well, then, my Siegfried, it is not that I 
want to go ; it is that I must. And it is not that 
I want you to stay, but that it is not possible to 
take you. 

^ ‘ There are those who have been hunting me 
for years. They nearly found me once. Because 
of that I took you and Lisbeth and came away 
from the Fatherland. They had not really set- 
tled upon me then, but they have now. If I stay 
here there will come a day very soon when you 
will come home and will find me — not alive." 

Siegfried sprang to his feet and straightened 
to his full height. His eyes fiashed. 

‘‘ We’ll fight them," he cried. '' Cossack and 
I will go with you everywhere. We will have 
swords and guns and lots of pistols! " 

It is not an open fight, like the one you had. 
If it were I would stay. But it is secret and 
cowardly. There is no avoiding it. By staying 
13 


COSSACK. 


i86 

here quietly, as if nothing had happened, you 
may be able to help me. They may be thrown 
off the track again. 

But it will not be so bad to be parted for a 
little. We will write to each other. It will be 
like a story. And sometime, when you do not 
expect it, you will look up and there will be 
your father standing before you. 

^ ‘ After a while you will come to Germany and 
live in our beloved Fatherland. The cause of 
all this trouble will not last forever. We may 
be together again very soon. Let us pray that 
peace will soon reign on the earth. 

Have I not told you enough? There is still 
one thing to add. Your father is pursued to the 
death, but he is no criminal. You need not be 
ashamed to own him.*’ 

I could never, never be ashamed of you,” 
said Siegfried, hugging him very close. 

They did not say much more. Cossack came 
up and tucked his long nose between them, and 
felt in the depths of his loving dog heart that 
the silent grief of these two vras very bitter. 

The pulse of the child began to beat high. 
Bright spots glowed in his cheeks, and his eyes 
turned restlessly from side to side. When it 
was time for bed his body was hot, his lips were 
parched. The madchen was sent in haste after 
the doctor, who looked very grave when he ex- 
amined the little patient. A trained nurse was 
ordered at once. Days and nights of suffering 


‘'SEHR LIEBLICH.’* 187 

followed, and delirium in which the child fought 
imaginary battles and felled deadly foes. 

No hand could soothe him like the big, gentle 
hand that was always so swift and glad to serve. 
He turned from the nurse to seek it. When his 
eyes were closed his little fingers fumbled the 
blankets as if in search, and when they found 
the hand again he seemed, somehow, afraid be- 
cause he had found it. 

'^Why have you not gone?’’ he whispered, 
shrilly. ‘‘ Why do you not go? You must not 
stay ! ” 

Then, after sinking slowly back, he would 
spring up again. ‘‘ Now! this is your chance! 
They are looking at me. If they turn Cossack 
will kill them. Go ! go quickly ! ” 

And Cossack, at the sound of his name, always 
sprang to the side of the little sufferer and 
moaned in sympathy, while cold drops gathered 
upon the forehead bending over them both. 

‘ ‘ Christ in heaven ! wilt thou let them take 
the child’s life also? ” 

The days went on, and the small, evil-looking 
figure kept his watch. 

“ He will escape us by dying as a Christian 
dies,” he muttered, for he thought that it was the 
tall man who was ill. But one day, when Sieg- 
fried was very low, he heard the madchen sob- 
bing in the hall. And as she sobbed he caught 
the words ‘‘mannchen” and ‘‘sehr lieblich.” 
Then he knew that it was the child, and he smiled. 


i88 


COSSACK. 


One day the headmaster came to inquire about 
the little invalid. The artist met him in the 
great studio, the beautiful room that was now so 
ghostly still. His face was white and stern with 
sorrow. 

'' I came to ask about the ^ little master,”' said 
the visitor. ‘‘We call him that at the school, 
and to tell you how deeply we feel this trouble, 
because we love him very much." 

The tall man held out his hand, but did not 
speak. There was no need for words just then. 

‘ ‘ And I must tell you that the manliness of 
your little son has been felt throughout the 
school. He was full of spirit and sport, but he 
was frank and true. The moral standard in his 
form is higher than when he entered it. And 
the best of all is that he was so unconscious of 
it, so bright and sunny ; looking always for the 
best in even the worst among them ; encourag- 
ing the bright ones to do their best work, and 
helping the slower ones. We miss him greatly. 
It seems as if his life must be spared because it 
is of the kind that is needed." 

“ Yes; he will recover," he said. “The doc- 
tor and the nurse both say it. He is a vigorous 
child, and is now much better. If he were not 
at this moment asleep he would be glad to see 
you and to send a message to his classmates. 

“ As soon as he is better I must go away. 
The duty is imperative. This illness has kept 
me. But he will remain here, with the same 


‘‘SEHR LIEBLICH/' 


189 


servants for a year or two, and go on with his 
work in your school. May I know that you will 
look after him a little because of my absence, 
and if he should ask for advice that you will not 
refuse it ? 

I am at your service, my dear sir. It will 
be a pleasure. He is a rare child.” 

They clasped hands and parted. 

The ‘'little master” smiled when the words 
were told over to him. 

“It will make you care more for me,” he 
said, looking up into the beloved face. 

“ As if that could be possible.” 

“ Bend lower, papa. I want you to go, now. 
It will make me ill again if you do not. You 
shall see how brave I am.” 

“When you are well, my mannchen. And 
though we are apart, and our hands do not touch 
as now, our hearts will be together.” 

Then the child began to mend so rapidly that 
they all wondered. They watched him ; he was 
so patient and reasonable under the restraints of 
the sick room. Some new purpose seemed to 
stir him. He had made up his mind to go on 
with life in the way his father had chosen, and 
when he grew up to seek out those secret foes 
and conquer them. And the thought made him 
very brave. 

The three sat often in the beautiful studio, 
Siegfried in his little Indian dressing gown and 
wool slippers, curled upon the sofa with his 


COSSACK. 


190 

head upon his father’s knee, and Cossack at 
their feet watching, watching with all his heart. 

When the day came that the father had 
planned to go, the parting was quiet ; each bear- 
ing bravely, for the sake of the other, what was 
a most bitter thing. 

Cossack felt that the shadow had fallen, and 
that his duty to the little master was doubled 
now that none but Lisbeth and her madchen 
were left to comfort him. 

The illness had been a sore trial to the dog. 
He was disturbed over every unusual thing that 
had to be done for his little friend. When 
the doctor sat too long counting by the second 
hand of his watch while his finger rested upon 
the throbbing pulse, the nose of the dog often 
slid between the fingers and the feverish little 
wrist. 

His devotion was unwearied. He could 
hardly be coaxed out with the madchen for his 
walk of a few blocks at morning and night. He 
ate but little, and was heartbroken if he could 
not stay by the bed. His joy at the recovery 
was unbounded, and as the days went on the 
two became firmer friends than ever before. 


FROGS AND OTHER THINGS. 


I9I 


X. 

FROGS AND OTHER THINGS. 

S O Siegfried and Cossack were left alone, ex- 
cept for the faithful Lisbeth and her mad- 

chen. 

To say that it was not hard for them all would 
be an untruth, for instead of growing accus- 
tomed to their loss they came to feel it more 
deeply. 

Idsbeth often sat in the studio now, and told 
over and over every incident that she could re- 
member in the early life of the big papa, every 
word he had spoken, every feat of daring ac- 
complished, whether upon horseback or with 
arms when training, as every German youth 
must do, in the army. His serious words were 
commented upon and sank deep into the child- 
ish heart, and his bright words were treasured — 
for to Lisbeth the strong and handsome young 
Herr had been brighter and sunnier than any of 
his companions. And, of course, Siegfried and 
Cossack were ready to believe it all. 

Cossack went everywhere with his little friend, 
except to the church on Sundays, where Lisbeth 
and he went alone. People came to watch for the 
two at certain hours, the beautiful boy with his 


192 


COSSACK. 


earnest face and manly bearing, and the great 
silvery white dog with his stately, high-bred air. 

At the grammar school a rug had been spread 
for Cossack, and he was patient, with the pa- 
tience of true devotion, during the hours of 
waiting. 

It was at this time that Siegfried began to take 
the little color studies of frogs that he had made 
during the previous summer, and work them up 
into pleasant pictures of imaginary frog life. 

There was the young frog starting off, with 
his books and his tail, to school. 

Then came the grown-up frog, in all the glory 
of his majority, when the tadpole appendage had 
passed away along with the callowness of youth, 
and he could promenade the damp borders of 
his marshy pool, while his breast heaved with 
the consciousness that his ballot weighed as 
much at the polls as that of the ablest frog citi- 
zen in all the swampy borough. 

‘‘ Love's Young Dream " followed — the head- 
master gave this name — when with guitar in 
hand, and with bulging throat the swain frog 
sang in sonorous tones to a shy young frogess, 
who smiled complacently as she peered from out 
the clump of lily buds that made her home. 

There was the meeting, the various stages of 
wooing, the wedding bells, rung by the lilies, 
and the joyous home-bringing of the bride. 

Then Mr. Frog sat contentedly under his own 
vine and fig tree — this latter was symbolized by 


FROGS AND OTHER THINGS. 


193 


an enormous toadstool — and smoked his long 
pipe. Numerous little tadpoles clambered 
over his knees or played hide-and-seek over 
his shoulders. Others frolicked about the 
frogess as she sat darning the family hose, or 
tried to coax the 
tiniest tadpole of 
all out of its tiny 
lace-trimmed cra- 
dle. 

In all of the 
latter pictures 
there was sure to 
be tucked in some- 
where a little ar- 
tist tadpole, with 
his easel and 
maulstick, and a 
wise, wise look on 
his little green 
face. 

The headmas- 
ter watched the 
development of 
the series with the 

deepest interest. And when the pictures were 
finished, and each tender bit of landscape was 
touched into the delicate background, he asked 
Siegfried to let him take them for a day. 

And what do you think? He went di- 
rectly to the finest art store upon Fifth Avenue 


WITH A WISE, WISE LOOK ON HIS 
LITTLE GREEN FACE. 



194 


COSSACK. 


and showed them to the astonished proprietors, 
and glowed with satisfaction at their words of 
praise. He asked them to name a price for the 
series, and then, though Siegfried objected to 
taking the money, while he was willing enough 
to part with the pictures, the headmaster in- 
sisted upon it. Then he had the pictures set 
into the panels of the nursery in his own cosy 
home. 

This brought the little master into contact 
with the purchasing world, and made people 
begin to expect that some beautiful strong thing 
would grow out of his future. It came to be 
the fashion to have a series of these simple, 
artistic sketches done by the little hands for the 
children's rooms in the great houses. And 
Siegfried, with his purpose in view of going out 
to hunt down the pursuers of his father, and 
not knowing, although he had everything that a 
boy could care for, that there was a great for- 
tune awaiting him, took the money shyly, yet 
with a pleased feeling that his work was appre- 
ciated. He gave it all into Lisbeth’s hands, 
and bade her save it for the one purpose of 
which they often spoke. 

The boy friends came often and kept up the 
old-time friendship. And Lisbeth remembered 
the fruit and the lemonade, or the chocolate, or 
anything else that was pleasant and wholesome. 
These simple refreshments always stood with 
their dainty appointments upon the antique table 


FROGS AND OTHER THINGS. I95 

in the room whose every corner and every foot 
of space told stories to the loving hearts of these 
three — Siegfried, Cossack, and the stiff little 
old woman — about the tender, manly presence 
which did not gladden it any more. 

Smudge came as of old. His hard, battling 
nature was wonderfully drawn to the simple and 
brave one of the little master. He was willing 
now to account his own work as far below the 
standard of the .other ; and he sat many hours 
at the feet of the unconscious teacher and heard 
the lessons that had been taught by the wise 
one who, for some reason of which the child 
never spoke, must be absent so long. 

The mysteries of light and color were told 
over, most unscientifically, to be sure, and with 
such simplicity and direct familiarity with great 
problems as would have made the teeth of some 
of the learned ones rattle at the child’s temerity. 
But Smudge learned the meaning, and Cossack 
knew that it was all right, from having heard it 
so clearly explained before. 

The skeleton and the manikin became of 
much account once more. Two figures instead 
of one stood arrayed in swimming trunks be- 
fore the cheval glass and hunted for muscles. 

There were times when two boyish heads got 
sorely puzzled over the long names in the great 
books on Anatomy, the ones with the colored 
plates. Funny enough was the work they often 
made with the pronunciation. Cossack had to 


196 


COSSACK. 


smile in the sleeve of his silvery white ftir at 
the decisions reached by the puzzled heads and 
the twisted tongues. He could have told them 
better many times. But Cossack was wise. He 
never made a display of his learning. 

He did not mind the skeleton and the mani- 
kin so much now. Though there came times 
when, if the little master lay too long upon the 
sofa, with his face hidden away upon his arm, 
Cossack used to go into the curtained corner 
and, for the simple purpose of expressing the aw- 
ful feeling that possessed him, thrust his long 
nose roughly against those dangling legs, until 
the bones began a ghostly clatter, and the two 
went off into a very suggestive dance upon air. 

He could not quite lay the long illness and the 
longer absence upon their swaying shoulders; 
but they had caused unpleasant hours to come 
into the old pleasant days, and it was not easy 
for a mighty dog, whose jaws bristled with saber- 
like teeth, to endure such memories without 
some show of resentment. 

Then, too, the evil-looking figure in the room 
across the broad hall — what did it mean? 

Cossack never forgot that he was a wolfhound, 
created by some higher power to hunt the blood- 
thirsty creatures that went on their snarling way 
after innocent lives. He knew all this. It was 
common talk in the kennels where he was born. 
When the shadows of evening gathered around, 
and the everyday noises took on a strange and 










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THE TALES WERE QUITE BLOOD-CURDLING. 






FROGS AND OTHER THINGS. 1 99 

awful sound because of the darkness, some wise 
old hound in the kennel used to sit upon his 
haunches in a favorite corner, and tell over the 
days of wild life in Siberia, when the teeth of 
the wolfhound brought death to the wolves and 
loosened their fangs. During these recitals Cos- 
sack’s puppy down lifted itself all along his puppy 
spine, and stood as straight as such silky fibers 
possibly could stand. His little teeth chattered 
too, for the tales were quite blood-curdling, but 
his growl was very long and fearsome. 

And this? Did ever a wolf live who was so 
worthy of death as this presence that went sneak- 
ing, wolf-like, into shaded corners, and lurked 
as if ready to spring from the doorway of its own 
small den ? 

Summer came again, and after a little the boy 
and the dog began, with sketching pad and de- 
licious lunches, to wander along the old paths of 
the summer that was past. They looked again 
at the sky and the fields, the trees and the rocks 
and hills, at the brazen flowers that nodded bril- 
liant heads at them from the fence corners as they 
passed, and at the shy ones who hid their tiny 
faces down among the dark green leaves and 
waving grass. 

One day they sat by the brown pool where the 
trout slept, and they talked, at least Siegfried 
talked, and Cossack surely helped on the conver- 
sation. For he did everything but speak, and 


200 


COSSACK. 


who does not know that there are times when 
silence tells more than words? 

As they sat thus a beetle ran over Siegfried’s 
foot. Cossack sat up and gazed at it intently. 

What did he tell us about the beetles, Cos- 
sack ? He told us so many things and such wise 
things that we must not forget them.” 

He dropped his head upon his knees, and did 
not notice the alert attitude of his dog compan- 
ion, and hardly lifted his face at the glad bark 
that followed — the bark that was so sharp as 
almost to degenerate into a yelp of joy. 

A tall figure came hurriedly up and laid a ten- 
der hand upon the upturned forehead. 

‘'Ah, beloved Christ !” exclaimed the reverent 
little German heart. “At last, it is my father!” 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 


201 


XI. 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 

HE interview could not last too long, al- 



1 though it was very pleasant. Siegfried 
learned that several times, when he had not 
dreamed it, his father had been near him, and 
it gave to the child an uplift of spirit. He must 
be at his best at all times, for the dear pair of 
eyes might rest upon him at any moment. 

After this second parting he went about with 
a sort of inner brightness shining out of his face 
and into his smile, which made him very at- 
tractive to other eyes. 

The autumn came on and the school opened 
again, and still the boy and his dog were alone 
with the two servants. 

This troubled the dark man so much that he lay 
whole nights in the shadow outside of his door 
to watch. And once he ventured to question the 
mMchen, who answered frankly that the Herr 
Artist was away only to attend to some estates that 
would belong to the mannchen some day. She 
spoke so freely that the dark man said to himself : 

‘‘ No, he does not suspect. I can afford to 
wait. He will return.'' 


14 


202 


COSSACK. 


That night he wrote some strange characters 
and put them into an envelope and sent them 
away by the post. 

One night, as Siegfried and Cossack came into 
the upper hall from their evening run, the dog 
pricked up his ears at an unusual sound. Then, 
as he heard it again, he turned toward the door 
of the small room and growled. 

Siegfried heard it this time. It was the sound 
of suffering. He went to the door and rapped, 
although Cossack showed disapproval, even go- 
ing so far as to take hold of the boys sleeve with 
his teeth. 

No answer came. After an interval the moan 
again reached his ears. He tried the door, and, 
after a little shaking and pushing, the bolt, which 
had not been well adjusted, was jarred back and 
the door opened. 

The room was nearly dark. A dingy lamp 
smoked on a table in the corner, amid piles of 
dirty diwshes and moldy scraps of food. Rubbish 
was scattered all over the floor, and a shoe- 
maker’s bench sat against the wall under the one 
window. The form of the small dark man was 
stretched upon a narrow, wretched bed. His 
face looked more evil than ever. His dirty 
woolen shirt was open, and showed that his 
hairy breast was struggling for breath. 

“ Poor man ! you are very ill,” said Siegfried, 
bending over him. 

But no answer came. 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 


203 


Cossack was much disturbed at this venture 
of his little master, but, being a wolfhound, he 
had not hesitated to enter the den with him. 
He curled his high-bred lip as he looked at the 
prostrate figure. A wolf, raging, would be legit- 
imate prey, but this? Still, he sniffed longingly 
at the legs that lay outstretched beneath the 
dingy coverlet. 

‘‘This must not be,” said the Brave One. 
“ It is hard to be ill when you have friends and 
everything. But this is most pitiful.” 

He ran to his own door and called Lisbeth to 
come and do what she could while he sent the 
madchen after their own doctor. Lisbeth ob- 
jected strongly, but the earnestness of the boy 
was great. He bore her along with him, even 
against her will. 

“ It is heavenly kind in you, my little Herr,” 
she said over and over. “It is too heavenly 
kind. I cannot do it. I must not. Why, he is 
the one who sent — ” 

“Ah, Lisbeth, dear, you are not like yourself. 
I do not know you. Suppose no one had done 
anything for me when I was so ill. Let me help 
you. Here is a clean, fresh lamp. Bring some 
sheets and a pillow. The one he is on now is so 
hot and uncomfortable ! I shall ring for the jan- 
itor and have him send up a woman to help us.” 

The doctor came and did not look too well 
pleased. He was a very aristocratic man. He 
would not mind treating this patient if he had 


204 


COSSACK. 


found him in the ward of the hospital where he 
was the consulting physician ; but to come in his 
carriage to enter such a door ! 

However, the earnestness of the child won him 
too. He went to work with a will. A nurse 
was summoned and directions given. 

“We’ll take some of that money, you know, 
Lisbeth,” whispered Siegfried, thinking of his 
own little earnings ; ‘ ‘ you don’t know how 

dreadful it is to be so very ill.” 

But Lisbeth was not troubled about the money. 
It was something even more troublesome than 
that. 

The dark man was unconscious, and the room 
gradually underwent a rare transformation. It 
was aired and cleansed. His own body was 
bathed. A mattress and other bedding were 
brought from the rooms opposite. Everything 
was done that could be done for his comfort. 

The fever was stubborn. It was many days 
before he could open his eyes in anything but 
delirium. When he did so he saw the earnest 
face of the boy beside him, and the nurse, in a 
soft white cap and wholesome garments, moving 
noiselessly about. He stared and blinked, and 
stared again. He tried to spring up, but could 
not. And when he found that he could not rise 
he gnashed his teeth in rage at his very feeble- 
ness. 

Siegfried bent over him. 

“ Do not move!” he said, gently. “Do not 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 


205 


look SO hard at everything. Do not even try to 
think. You are very ill. You were nearly dead 
when we found you — Cossack, he’s my dog, and 
I. But you will be better soon if you are very 
quiet. The doctor says it and the nurse says it. 
I will go now, because you must not get tired.” 

The next day the sick man opened his eyes 
again upon the same boyish face, and when he 
sav;- it he tried again to spring from the bed, and 
again he failed. 

Yes, I am here again to see you,” said Sieg- 
fried. And I am so glad that you are better. 
I come in every day to sit by you for a little 
while. I thought perhaps you might have a little 
boy somewhere” — the gentle voice became a little 
broken — ‘‘ and that you might have to be away 
from him for a little while, and maybe you’d be 
glad to see me here when you wakened. But I 
mustn’t talk any more. Perhaps I’d better go 
away. It’s very tiresome to be talked to when 
you are so ill.” 

He went away. And the look upon the face 
of the sick man was one that almost terrified the 
nurse, it was so like the look of some struggling, 
evil thing. 

Lisbeth had gone about like one in a most dis- 
tressful dream. Her kindness of heart struggled 
with her almost hatred of the sick man. She 
rebelled at the interest taken in him by her be- 
loved little charge. There were times when she 
straightened her little figure and clasped her 


2o6 


COSSACK. 


hands and vowed that they should not open to 
do another thing for the wretch who had been 
seeking a life so much worthier than his. 

“ I shall tell the child. I must tell him/' she 
sighed, as she rocked herself back and forth 
upon her chair. 

But before she knew it the boy had come 
home and had thought of something that tasted 
good when he was ill, and had coaxed her into 
preparing it with her own hands. 

‘‘It is too heavenly kind! " she said, shaking 
her gentle old head, “ too heavenly kind 1 ” 

“ I don't understand you, Lisbeth," Siegfried 
said, at last. “ You displease me, and you would 
displease my father if he were here. Have you 
forgotten the things he was always doing for 
poor men and hungry boys ? He has gone to their 
miserable rooms and cellars many times, and has 
bought things for them, as we are doing now." 

“Not to such as this one, mein Siegfried; 
not to one like this ! " 

“Well, then, he would if he were here. I 
know his heart as well as you — and better, if you 
think he would not do all this." 

He took the delicate cup of refreshing drink 
and went across the hall. His gentle rap was 
answered by the nurse, who never refused him 
admission, and he went directly to the bedside 
of the sufferer. He lifted the spoon — it was of 
solid silver in an antique pattern, with a strange 
figure upon the handle — and bent down. 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 20/ 

‘ ^ I have brought you something that tasted 
the best of anything to me when I was ill. It 
helped me more than all the medicine. Try a 
little.’' 

He held the spoon to the pallid lips. But 
they did not part. And the face seemed as if 
frozen, it was so moveless. The unwinking 
eyes devoured the kind face that bent, and 
smiled a little as it bent over him. 

‘‘ Ach, bitte, taste a wee bit. It breaks my 
heart that you are so ill, because it makes me 
remember that my own beloved father, who has 
to be away from me now, may be ill somewhere. 
And I should want some one to do these things 
for him, you know.” 

Then the sick man raised his arm and thrust 
the child away with all his strength, and gave a 
mighty cry and became unconscious. 

It is the delirium,” said Siegfried, looking 
down at the empty cup. It is frightful. They 
say I was so.” 

He went back, and Lisbeth wiped his clothes, 
and wondered in her faithful heart what was 
coming next. 

That night the nurse was surprised at the 
change that came upon the sick man. He had 
not spoken a word. Neither doctor, nor nurse, 
nor the kindness of the child could bring a syl- 
lable to his lips. They might have thought him 
dumb had they not known by unmistakable 
signs that he could not be deaf. 


208 


COSSACK. 


He beckoned to the nurse. 

'‘Tell me all about it/' he said. "Tell me 
how you came to be here." 

"The sickness was very severe," she an^ 
swered. " You were surely very near to death. 
But the boy heard you, the beautiful German 
artist boy across the hall. He worked at the 
door until it opened. It is all his doing — the 
doctor, myvSelf, the fresh bed, the food, the clean 
room — even the flowers he brought because his 
boy friends used to send them to him when once 
he was ill. He often speaks of his father, who is 
away. And, somehow, in doing this for you 
he seems to think that some one would do the 
same for his father, if he should be ill while 
they are separated. He does not seem to realize 
what it all costs. But they tell me he has a 
great deal of money, though you would not 
dream it, he is so simple-hearted. I doubt if he 
knows it himself. And they tell me, too, that 
he is of noble birth." 

The sick man lay still for a long time. 

"I must write a letter," he said. "There 
was paper on that table." 

The nurse brought the things and arranged 
him so that he could write. 

" Now go into the corner there, and do not 
look at me until I call you." 

Then he wrote with his trembling hand many 
of the strange characters. He would not rest 
until the paper was sealed in an envelope. Then 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 


209 


he called the nurse to address it for him. The 
address was very simple. Nurses often do such 
kind offices, and after it had been written it was 
immediately forgotten. 

I want it posted at once,’' he said. 

The next day he asked for Siegfried. 

‘ ‘ I wish he would come in and talk a little to 
me. But he must not expect me to speak.” 

Siegfried came, with a pleased look upon his 
boyish face. Cossack was with him. And as 
he talked very slowly and gently he smoothed 
the head of the dog. 

I thought you might like to see him,” said 
Siegfried. '^And, then, he and I are such friends 
that he does not like to have me leave him.” 

He told the sick man that when he was better 
he must come into the studio and amuse himself 
with the curious things there, and look at some 
of the beautiful pictures his father had painted. 

‘‘ For I think that my father is very great,” 
he said. ‘‘ He is the greatest of all to me. And 
he helps me, and knows so well how to teach me 
to paint also. Once I went with him to see 
some poor, poor German people. They were 
good and gentle, but things had happened to 
make them most unhappy. And one of them 
was a little old, old woman. She was very bent 
and very wrinkled. I was almost frightened 
when she came toward us, and I clung to my 
father so that he took me in his arms. She 
looked up into our faces in such a gentle way 


210 


COSSACK. 


that, as she talked, I began not to see the little 
old, bent body ; but, somehow, to feel as if I 
could see what her soul was like. And pres- 
ently I began to see it standing tall and straight 
and beautiful beside her. And it said to me — at 
least I almost heard it say : 

“ ‘ Do not look down there. Here I am. That 
is not myself. It is only a worn-out, little, 
crooked case that I must stay in for a while. 
But you should not think of me as being like 
that.' 

‘‘ And, when we came home, I took my char- 
coal and a great sheet of paper and made a pic- 
ture of the way the little bent old woman looked 
to me, after I knew how beautiful her soul was. 
And my father liked the picture so much that 
he had it put into a curious old frame, for which 
he paid a good deal of money. He said that I 
was right, that art is only telling the beautiful 
truth about things'' 

The sick man closed his eyes. His lips trem- 
bled. 

Ach, now I have wearied you," said Sieg- 
fried. I will go now, and whenever you want 
me send for me. I am getting to like to look at 
you better than I did. Your face is changing. 
You do not seem as you did when I saw you 
first. Somehow I can see a little of your heart, 
and it is pleasanter than it was when you were 
so sick with the delirium. It is like the little 
bent old woman, though I could not see it be- 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 


21 I 


fore. I like to sit by you and think of how you 
will look to me when you get to be quite, quite 
well.” 

He moved away. 

The sick man put out his hand as if to detain 
him, then drew it back and followed him wist- 
fully with his eyes until he was beyond sight. 
Then he turned away and began 
to sob until his body shook as with 
an ague. 

When Siegfried heard of 
it he said : 

‘ ‘ Poor man ! Perhaps 
has a little boy some- 
where. I never 
his looks before 
then I never 
looked at him 
much, and it 
makes a great 
difference when 
you come to 
know anybody, someone whom it was very easy to like. 
doesn’t it? ” 

The nurse said that it did ; but she felt that 
she was just then looking at some one whom it 
was very easy for anyone to like to look at, even 
if it were a first meeting. 

A mighty struggle had been going on within 
the breast of the sick man. It was wearing him 
out. He grew feebler every day, and asked 



212 


COSSACK. 


impatiently for the mail, and would not believe 
when none was given him. 

At last, when he was very weak, a letter came. 
He became greatly excited as he read. 

‘'Call the boy,” he said, eagerly, “and the 
little old woman who hates me so. Send for a 
priest and a lawyer. It must be done right. I 
will have it done right.” 

They all came in. The lawyer, used to such 
scenes, brought his pen and legal paper. The 
priest said an office for the dying. Then the 
lawyer administered the oath, and began taking 
down a most strange statement. 

It told of a Russian nobleman whose death 
had been decreed by the Nihilists. The sick 
man and his brother, who was a younger man, 
and very much beloved by the sick man, were 
appointed to take the Russian’s life. One even- 
ing, as the Russian, in company with three 
high-born German youths, was entering his car- 
riage, they stabbed him to the heart. The Ger- 
mans turned upon them, killed the brother, and 
would have killed the sick man had not the 
darkness helped him to escape. 

Then, because the German youths had killed 
one of their number, the Nihilists determined 
that they too must die. The sick man had 
begged to be the avenger of his brother. If he 
failed or fell some other one would take his 
place. Two of the Germans had fallen by his 
hand. There remained only one. That one 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 


213 


was the artist who had lived across the hall. It 
took years to find them all, and to make sure, in 
each case, that aim was taken at the right one ; 
longest of all to find the artist. But at last the 
Nihilist was certain. He would have taken his 
life once had it not been that the dog was with 
him. It was just before the boy was sick. 
And he was not seen again. Some business 
called him away one day, when the Nihilist was 
off his guard. 

The sick man did not spare himself. He said 
that after finding his victim he had not been in 
haste to do the deed. He thought about it and 
gloated over it. He had lived for so long with 
only a thought of revenge burning in his heart 
that he began to love it. No one had been kind 
to him. The Socialists whom he had met in 
America were sordid creatures, even as the 
others had been. They loved themselves, and 
joined the secret order that they might bring 
about a time when, without labor themselves, 
they could snatch wealth from others. It was 
an evil purpose. It made life hateful and the 
ones who cherished it hideous. 

“ But now ” — the sick man turned his restless 
eyes upon Siegfried — “ the boy has ransomed his 
father. Because he has saved one of its mem- 
bers the society gives back to him the life that 
he so loves. It was a hard battle. I fought it 
well. But I could only fail. I did not want his 
kindness. But it rained upon me. I could not 


214 


COSSACK. 


conquer his love. I could not hold out against 
his tenderness. It melted my hatred like the 
snow. Tell the tall German Herr to come back 
to his boy. This letter proves that he is safe. 
No one can touch him now.’' 

The little dark man could hardly wait to sign 
his name. The cold drops were thick upon his 
forehead and breast. His breath came with 
effort. 

I had to live to do this. I would not die be- 
fore it was done.” 

His eyes were growing dim. He turned them 
rewStlessly. 

“ Where is the boy? ” he asked, with a fierce 
appeal in his voice. 

Lisbeth clasped her little hands together. 
‘'Ach! thou kind Heaven. And I so battled 
him. To think how I battled with him ! Ach, 
mein Gott! ” 

Siegfried knelt beside the dark man. 

''I am so happy,” he said, ‘Hhat I cannot 
speak it. How beautiful and white your spirit 
is ! Then I can have my father again ! ” 

He clasped the outstretched, groping hand in 
both of his warm, gentle ones. He kissed the 
furrowed cheek, and the eager eyes, although 
he was so choked with tears that he could not 
utter a word. 

The voice of the priest read reverently the 
commendatory prayers for the dying. 

Then those who were standing by saw a great 


THE DARK LITTLE MAN. 


215 


change come. A light, that it seemed would 
have illuminated all the place, had there been no 
other, shone out from the pallid face, and some- 
thing that seemed more heavenly than a smile 
came upon it and rested there. 


2i6 


COSSACK. 


XII. 

AND THEN — 

S IEGFRIED and Cossack wrote a wild, al- 
most unintelligible letter, summoning the 
absent one. 

Of course Cossack helped to write it, for he 
held his nose very close to the paper and punc- 
tuated every sentence with a bark, and finally 
upset the inkstand so that a great splash of ink 
settled exactly beside Siegfried’s name at the 
bottom of the sheet. 

You can imagine the rest. It’s good sport 
to imagine things. You will like it much better 
than if I tell it all out plainly. 

You can see the tall Herr Artist coming back 
and the glad little household transplanted from 
the beautiful old studio to a very grand and 
beautiful old home in the beloved Father- 
land. And can you not see how the sunny- 
faced, earnest-hearted little boy was welcomed 
into the great brotherhood of artists, and that 
as the years went by his countrymen and men 
of other countries, came to honor and love him 
more and more? 

I am sure you would know, without its being 
written, that on account of his genius he became 




“COSSACK, GROWN OLDER AND WISER. 


AND THEN — 2ig 

the friend of princes in that country where 
genius and learning are so highly honored. 

And if you close your eyes you will be sure to 
see in how dignified a manner Cossack, grown 
older and wiser, if that were possible, would 
receive the learned ones among his master’s 
friends. For Cossack is sure that this success 
is due to his own severe disapproval of those 
early efforts at figure drawing and color effects. 

There is no doubt in Cossack’s mind that the 
world would have lost a great name if he had 
been less severe. When one begins an artistic 
career by drawing heads and arms and legs 
promiscuously, and then attaching them to any 
part of the human body that chances to touch 
them on the paper, there is no knowing where 
he will end, unless his work is severely handled 
by a competent critic. 

He shudders, even now, with horror at the pos- 
sibility once presented, that he, Cossack, a sil- 
very-white Russian dog of bluest blood, might 
have to go down to posterity arrayed in a Nile- 
green coat with trimmings of old rose ! 

And Smudge? Ah, I see it in your face. 
You know all about him. 

Everyone has forgotten the old name now ex- 
cept the prettiest girl. She reminds him of it 
occasionally, when she finds a fresh splash of 
paint upon his studio coat. She is very much 
in love with him, and presides over his tasteful 
home, and smiles adoringly when she hears him 


220 


COSSACK. 


grumbling, good-naturedly, at everything and 
everybody but herself. 

There is no taste in people nowadays, he 
says. They will buy anything with a foreign 
name tacked to it. He rails at the Philistines, 
and uses a good many terms that other artists 
have used before, and yet other artists will use 
again. 

But all the time the prettiest girl knows that his 
own pictures are in greater demand every year 
of his life. And she is very happy. 



REX. 


AN AUTO-BOW-WOW-OGRAPHY. 












HAD BEEN STUDYING VERY HARD, AND THE SCOLDING NEARLY BROKE 

MY HEART.” 



REX. 


I. 

HIS INTRODUCTION. 

I AM only a young St. Bernard dog, but hav- 
ing spent a good many hours in the library 
of the house it is not too much to say that I am 
quite learned. 

This does not mean that I have studied all the 
books that line the walls of the room, and to- 
gether with the warm rugs and open fire make 
it such a very inviting place ; for I have really 
“gone through ” but one volume in the whole 
number. The result of that effort was not at all 
satisfactory. I was still engaged upon it — it was 
a fine, large volume, and it interested me greatly 
— when the owner of the library came in. 

I had been studying very hard, and the scold- 
ing nearly broke my heart. The old ardor 
for book learning suddenly left me. I came to 
understand that such study is not necessary to 
my education. I have only to keep awake so 
as not to lose any of the conversation when 
learned people are present, and to lift my ears a 
little whenever the owner of the books talks 


226 


REX. 


softly to himself, as he sometimes does when he 
writes. 

By giving close attention to these things I 
have come to know many things. 

Some of the books against the walls are called 
biographies. This is a long word, and means 
that they contain the story of a person’s life. 
There are other books which are called auto- 
biographies. This a very long word, and means 
that the person himself has written the story of 
his life. My mistress is very much pleased with 
a book of this latter kind. It was written by 
Dupre, the great Italian, who, instead of paint- 
ing pictures on canvas with oils and brushes, 
made them out of clay and marble and bronze. 
‘‘The story was charming,” she said. Some- 
times she cried a little over it. 

This set me to thinking. 

If she cares so much for the story of a man 
whom she has never seen, why would she not 
care very much more to read about her own dog, 
whom she has seen? 

I soon decided that she should have my story. 
And as it will be a dog’s life told by himself, I want 
to call it an auto-bovr-wow-ography. But Mina, 
the other dog of the house, laughed so when I 
mentioned it to her that she actually fell over. 

I hardly know what to do. Mina is a good 
dog. She knows a great deal and is older than 
I am. Still, she is in the kennel a good deal of 
the time, and does not have the opportunities 


HIS INTRODUCTION. 


227 


for listening to literary conversation that I do. 
It is hardly to be expected that her opinion in 
such matters would be very good. Then, too, 
she is very mischievous, and always sees the 
funny side of everything. Still, it is not pleasant 
to be laughed at even by Mina. 

I will now begin my story. It may not be 
worth the telling, but if it bring an hour of 
pleasure to the one for whose dear sake I under- 
take so unusual a task, it will more than repay 
me. 

My name is Rector, Jr., though my mistress 
calls me Rex, because it is shorter and prettier. 
Besides, Rex means a king, and she says that I 
am growing to be a king among dogs. 

You can find my “registered” name in the 
American Kennel Book. The number is five 
hundred and seventy-six. Only the names of 
thoroughly well-bred dogs are ever registered. 
It is some trouble, and it costs money. By this 
you can see that it is an honor to be a “ regis- 
tered ” dog. 

Although my home is in America, in the great 
State of New York, I was born across the sea, in 
Leeds of England. 

Leeds is a smoky place, with dirty, crowded 
streets and great manufactories. It is larger than 
some cities, but it must still be called a town ; 
for its people are either too poor or they have 
too little religious zeal to build a cathedral. 


228 


REX. 


and thus make of Leeds a city.* Still, I do not 
complain of my birthplace . Y ou will not wonder 
at this when you learn that I was born in the 
renowned kennels of Mr. Sidney W. Smith, who 
has owned some of the most famous dogs the 
world has ever seen. 

My family name is St. Bernard, and our an- 
cestral home is in the Alps. 

We received this name from a monk who 
bore it — a rare spirit, 
born in the eleventh 
century, who by his 
fearless eloquence 
could make and un- 
make popes. He was 
a great, enthusiastic, 
self-denying soul, in 
whom ‘ ‘ the best 
thought and piety of 
his time arose to a 
sweet mystery and 
rapture.” Many books 
have been written by him and about him. 

You must surely have read some of the thrill- 
ing stories that are told of certain ones of my 
own race, to whom those devout men, the monks 
of St. Bernard, have given such high praise. 

The snow is always deep in those lofty regions. 
Many travelers used every year to lose their 
way in the mountain drifts and die of weariness 

* Since the above was written Leeds has become a city.—*/. C. C 



MR. SIDNEY W. SMITH. 


HIS INTRODUCTION. 


229 


and cold. The monks always sought for such. 
By letting their dogs accompany them they 
soon found that our superior strength, fleetness, 
and scent enabled us to save many persons who 
would otherwise have been lost. They came at 
last to have such confldence in our ability for 
this work that during and after every storm 
the dogs are sent out in pairs to do their work 
of life-saving. One has a flask of medicine 
strapped to his collar, and the other bears a 
warm cloak, in which the traveler may wrap 
himself. 

We go out, whether by day or night, into the 
trackless snow along the steep mountain sides. 
As we go we bay almost incessantly, pausing 
often to listen for some faint cry of distress. 
Our own voices can be heard at the distance of a 
mile, and as our hearing is keener than that of 
any human being the cry must be very faint 
indeed that we do not hear and seek out. 

When we have found a lost man, who has 
fallen and is already covered with the heavy 
snow, we clear it away from him with our paws. 
If he is not too weak he will drink of the medi- 
cine in the little flask, wrap himself in the warm 
cloak, and follow us back to the hospice, where 
the monks will welcome him. 

But if the fatal sleep that precedes death by 
freezing has taken such hold upon him that we 
cannot arouse him, one of us will lie down 
close beside him to warm him with our own 


REX. 


230 

body, while the other runs swiftly back to the 
hospice. The monks always understand what 
this means. They set out at once to seek and to 
save the one who would, otherwise, never be 
able to reach his home and friends. 

After a day or more, when the rescued man 
has been nursed back to strength, we are sent to 
guide him on his journey through the dangerous 
pass. 

Many of my ancestors have lost their own 
lives while seeking to save human lives. One 
of them was so faithful that, though he saw the 
coming danger, he continued his efforts to drag a 
dying man to a place of safety, and was buried, 
himself and his charge, under a mighty ava- 
lanche of snow. This dog, at the time of his 
death, wore a medal which showed that he had 
saved the lives of twenty-two persons ! 

When you think of all this you will hardly 
blame me for being proud of my ancestry. 

It seems to me that there is the same quality 
of courage in the blood of a dog who will die for 
a person to whom he is a stranger, and in whom 
he feels an interest only because of the need in 
which he finds him, that there is in the blood of 
the locomotive engineer who will meet death 
with his hand on the lever rather than save him- 
self by deserting his post. 

Besides being brave we are tender and af- 
fectionate. It has been said by one whose words 
are authority that we ' ' may be trusted with the 


HIS INTRODUCTION. 23 I 

care of women and little children with perfect 
dependence.” 

In appearance the St. Bernards are stately, 
and bear themselves with a grave dignity un- 
equaled by any other. Our color is tawny, or a 
dark brindle, with white markings. When a 
puppy is born at the hospice who has black 
cheeks shading to a tawny gold upon his ears, 
and whose white ‘‘blaze” runs from the nose 
over the forehead to join a white ruff about his 
neck, the monks are sure that he is set apart to 
be unusually successful in the sacred work of 
life-saving. 

We are divided into two classes — the long- 
haired and the short-haired St. Bernards. I 
belong to the former class, and though there is 
much to be said in favor of the others, no one 
will deny that a long coat is the more beautiful. 

Rector, Sr., is my father. You will notice his 
picture in this book. A portrait of him also 
hangs in a studio where I often go. It is painted 
the full size of life, and represents him as 
standing out upon a snowy ledge, while behind 
and above him tower the lofty summits of the 
Alps. 

He came to America only two weeks after I 
did, and is owned by Mr. Joseph K. Emmet, an 
actor, who takes him upon the stage in some of 
his plays. The audiences go quite wild with 
enthusiasm over the great size and the dignified 
manner of my father. Mr. Emmet paid Mr. 


232 


REX. 


Hearne, of New Jersey, who had purchased 
Rector, Sr., of Mr. Smith only a few weeks 
before, the sum of four thousand dollars before 
he could induce him to part with so grand a dog. 

Lady Beatrice is my mother. She is said to 
have the finest coat in all England — so long, so 
silky, and so finely marked. I remember how, 
along with my little brothers and sisters, I used 
to nestle down in this soft fur. My beautiful 
mother was very gentle, and let us tumble over 
her and pull her velvety ears until we were 
quite tired. 

There was one little sister who, they said, 
looked very much like me. I liked her the best 
of the whole five puppies. She was called the 
Duchess of Leeds, and her manners were high- 
bred and very winning, like those of our lady 
mother. 

Many people came to the kennels, and great 
were the cries of delight when the doors were 
unlocked and they were permitted to see the 
beautiful mother, with her six little ones about 
her. Gentlemen in riding-boots came and 
talked learnedly of our ‘‘ points and ‘‘mark- 
ings.’' These handled us roughly. Sometimes 
they tried our tempers sorely. White-haired la- 
dies and bonnie misses, and glad-voiced children 
came in coroneted carriages to admire and won- 
der over us. They could never be done exclaim- 
ing at our plumpness, our downy baby coats, our 
funny, broad feet, and our cunning faces. 


HIS INTRODUCTION. 


233 


This was all very fine for ns who were only 
puppies and did not know the ways of the 
world ; but to my mother such visits only brought 
anxiety and fear. She never objected when we 
were lifted from her side and kissed and cud- 
dled; but her face wore a pained look, and as 
each of us was returned to her she greeted us 
every time with as much joy as if we had been 
dead and were brought again to life. 

After the people were gone, and we were by 
ourselves in the soft bed, she would go over us 
one by one as if she could hardly be happy 
enough because we were all still with her. 

Ah, the dear dog mother! I know now why 
it was that her tender heart was so wrung 
when any one of us was unduly praised. One 
quiet evening, when the others were all asleep, I 
crept close to her face and, laying my cheek upon 
hers, asked her why she was so pained when 
her children were praised. It seemed to me that 
she was a strange mother who was not proud of 
puppies who must be very fine, or people would 
not take so much trouble to come and see them. 

She drew me down before her, and when she 
had taken my face between her paws I saw that her 
sensitive forehead had drawn itself full of lines, 
and that her great brown eyes were troubled. 

Because it means that I must lose you,’' she 
answered, lose you, everyone!” 

Then she lifted up her head and wept long 
and plaintively. 

IG 


234 


REX. 


Jamie, the man in charge of the kennels, 
heard her and came running in. He counted 
us, and turned us all about to see that we were 
unhurt. Then he seemed to understand the 
pain in my mother’s face, for he patted her 
gently and said : 

‘‘Ah, Leddy! Ye ken what’s cornin’. They’re 
a’ bonnie bairns, sure enow. It’s the heart in 
yer kist a callin’ an’ greetin’. Puir Leddy!” 

After this I stayed very close to my mother 
when visitors came. But I soon learned not to 
fear them, for my master said one day to a com- 
pany who were admiring me : 

“Yes; he is the finest of the lot. He has his 
mother’s coat, and he will have his father’s 
great size. He is going to America, as a gift to 
a lady.” 

One by one all were taken away, except my 
favorite little sister and myself. Mr. Smith 
would not part with the little Duchess of Leeds 
for any money. 

Many days went by and we were undisturbed. 
We became great playmates. 

One morning Scotch Jamie took my little 
sister and put her into another part of the large 
kennels. I almost succeeded in slipping through 
his legs and getting in there with her ; but he 
picked me up and tossed me good-humoredly back. 

“ Bide a wee !” he said. 

In a little while he returned, and, taking me 
in his arms, started off, saying : 


HIS INTRODUCTION. 


235 


''Come, Leddy! The master says ye maun 
gae to th’ country, so th’ bonnie chap ’ll get 
brawn for the journey.” 

Lady Beatrice needed no second bidding, but 
sprang to the door and was outside before us. 

Big Jamie carried me through the town, often 
pausing to let the children who crowded close 
get a longer look at me and smooth my ears or 
pat my head. For the children of Leeds are 
very fond of Mr. Smith and of his dogs. You 
have only to ask for the little man who owns 
the big dogs, and any child will direct you. 
And the men of Leeds have sincere respect for 
him. He is a quiet man of sterling worth. 

Jamie never once let me out of his strong 
arms. My mother kept close to his side and 
often reached up her pink tongue to lick my 
paw as it hung over the keeper’s arm. 

We were soon beyond the dirty streets and 
the smoke. 

This first little outing of my life was most de- 
lightful. Sights of which I had never dreamed 
lay all about us. There were long stretches of 
green, with dark hedges rising between. Tall 
trees reached up toward the wide blueness of 
the sky that spread its tender beauty over all. 
The air was soft and still, save for the bleating of 
distant sheep and the lowing of cattle, together 
with the nearer call of the rooks as they circled 
above our heads, while around and through it 
all there came the tramp, tramp of Jamie’s 


236 


REX. 


steady feet and his occasional word of cheer to 
my mother, who trotted patiently beside him. 

We stopped at last before a farmhouse. 
Everyone came out to welcome us. 

My mother lapped some water out of a great 
shining pail. 

Something white was set down before me in 
a basin. It smelled good, and I tumbled into 
it with both paws. Jamie laughed and lifted 
me out, and held only my nose in the basin. I 
liked the taste of the sweet white stuff, though I 
strangled and coughed and sneezed. 

'' He kens it,’' said the Scotchman, and patted 
me kindly. 

Then he gave Lady Beatrice a toothsome 
meal of cooked food, after which he led us into 
the stable and made us a snug bed of hay ; then 
he left us alone while he trudged back into the 
smoke and noise of the town. 


HIS JOURNEY. 


237 


11 . 

HIS JOURNEY. 

T hose two weeks in the still country were 
full of such happiness as cannot be told. 
My lady mother gave me her whole attention. 
She spent much of the time in teaching me 
things that a well-bred dog should know. The 
strange surroundings, together with the infre- 
quent visitors, aroused the watchfulness in my 
nature. I learned to listen for an unfamiliar 
noise and not to rest until its cause had been 
found. 

I studied the men as they came about, and 
grew to understand what sort of men they were, 
and whether it were safe to run freely around 
while they were near, or to keep quiet and out 
of the way of a careless boot. 

I learned to eat from the basin and to do it 
very neatly, without even putting so much as 
one paw into the dish. This was hard, for 
sometimes it would tip over when I thrust my 
tongue against the side after some delicious 
morsel. I also learned to wipe my lips off care- 
fully with my tongue after drinking or eating. 
By doing so my face was kept clean and white. 

I learned to gnaw a bone. This was the best 


238 


REX. 


of all. But though enjoying it hugely I wanted 
to growl all the time as loudly as I could. This 
may seem strange. I could not tell my reasons 
for doing so, but my mother said that it began 
away back in the early days of the earth, after 
Adam and Eve had been driven out of the 
garden, and when they and the creatures whom 
they had cursed by their sin had each to seek 
his own food. We were not cared for then as 
we are now. After hunting long and patiently 
for a meal it was often stolen from us, while we 
were in the very act of eating, by some stronger 
or more unprincipled fellow-creature. But she 
told me that I must learn to gnaw my bone in 
silence, and that a growl was only permissible 
when some other dog was trying to steal it from 
me. 

She also said that if I would be loved, as well 
as respected, I must learn to let my owner take 
even the daintiest bone away without remon- 
strance from me. This was hard ; but she was 
a patient teacher. 

Sometimes she played that she was the thief 
dog coming up to steal my meat. At such time 
I growled ferociously and sprang at her, where- 
upon she ran away as if she were really afraid. At 
other times she played that she was my owner, 
and reached her white paw to take the bone 
from between my teeth. I even learned to obey 
her in this, though it was the hardest thing 
she taught me. 


HIS JOURNEY. 


239 


I learned, too, to turn around in a circle sev- 
eral times before lying down for the night or 
for a long sleep. This habit also was formed 
in those early times when our ancestors had to 
tread down the grass or the brakes, and make 
each his own bed every night out under the sky 
and the stars. 

We used often to go out upon the soft grass 
and run and run. We sprang after the brown 
grasshoppers, we chased the yellow butter- 
flies, we even jumped and barked at the saucy 
rooks when they came so near that their 
shadows flitted by us on the ground. And 
then the long, long lazy naps we had in the 
open air on the mellow earth or curled up in 
the fragrant grass! 

My mother knew, in her wise dog heart, that 
such happiness could not be long unbroken ; but 
she forbore to sadden me. The only times 
when I felt it were when she strongly insisted 
upon my doing or not doing certain things, and 
said that she did so in order that life might be 
easier for me when I should have no one to give 
me counsel. 

She was wise and gentle and patient. I can 
never forget her teachings. 

One day we found a mouse. She let me play 
with it until I was tired. Then I shut my sharp 
little teeth upon it and left it while I went off to 
take a nap. She took it in her mouth and laid it 
in the stable doorway. I saw why she did this 


240 


REX. 


a little later, though I was too tired and sleepy 
to ask her then. When the farmer came at 
night he saw the mouse, and was greatly pleased, 
because it could not eat any more of his wheat. 
After that I hunted for mice and caught sev- 
eral every day. I always left them where the 
farmer could not fail to see them when he came 
in from his work at night. 

Those were pleasant days. I was happy when 
the soft sunshine of early autumn streamed 
through the great doorway and threw deep 
shadows into each distant corner. And I was 
no less happy when, cuddled close to my moth- 
er’s side, I listened drowsily to the rain as it 
came to cool the air, to moisten the fields, and 
to make such merry, merry music on the roof. 

One morning I heard a familiar footstep, and 
running out with a bark of welcome I saw 
Scotch Jamie’s broad figure and kindly face. 
I jumped about him in great glee, while he 
praised my size and strength in his curious 
Scotch dialect. 

“A bonnie oite, a bonnie one, sure enow! ” 
he cried. vSair brawn and bonnie ! Th’ leddy 
in the States ’ll prize ye, sure. Ye maun be 
gaein’ th’ day.” 

He gave some silver to the farmer’s wife, and, 
taking me in his arms again, began his tramp, 
tramp over the long, white road, between the 
stretches of green and under the tender blue of 
the sky. 


HIS JOURNEY. 


241 


My mother followed patiently, often looking 
up into Jamie’s face and kissing my paw, as she 
did that other time when we had our long tramp 
out. 

We neared the town. My spirits fell. Some- 
thing sad was coming. I knew it by the tender 
tone in the keeper’s voice when he spoke to Lady 
Beatrice. I knew it by the lines on her intelli- 
gent forehead whenever she looked up toward 
me. 

A dismal something I had never known began 
to take hold of my puppy heart. 

The children gathered around. They made 
Jamie stop while they cried out how much I had 
grown. Their voices troubled me. I wished 
that I had not grown. If Jamie had come and 
found that I had not grown perhaps he would 
have left me out there in the still country life. 
And if I were never to grow any more — perhaps 
we could stay there forever ! 

Mr. Smith was also greatly pleased with my 
appearance. Other people came to see me. 
One gentleman wanted to keep me and send 
one of my brothers to the lady in America. 
But Mr. Smith was firm. 

I told them they should have the finest one 
of the lot,” he said, '' and so they shall.” 

I saw my pet sister, the Duchess of Leeds, 
again. She was more playful than ever, and I 
forgot my trouble long enough to have a fine 
romp with her. She had grown to be a saucy 


242 


REX. 


little minx, and nipped my ears and pulled my 
tail so that I had to throw her down and hold 
her until she promised not to play so roughly. 

As night came on they brought a box to the 
kennel door. My mother suddenly took fright 
and tried to hide me. She pushed me into a 
corner and lay upon me until I almost cried out. 
But it was of no use ; they came and dragged 
her away. I wriggled out of Jamie’s arms and 
ran toward her. At that Lady Beatrice grew 
fierce and sprang between us. For a moment I 
thought she would tear him in pieces. She 
crouched and trembled for a spring, and her eyes 
gleamed like stars in the shadow of the kennel. 

The man who was with him gave a loud cry 
and ran outside, but brave, kind Jamie — kind 
at heart, though he had to do cruel things — 
stooped and smoothed her softly with his big, 
rough hand. 

‘‘ Ah, Leddy ! puir Leddy !” he said over and 
over, until the anger died out of my mother’s 
eyes and the fierceness out of her limbs. 

She sank at his feet and cried plaintively; 
but she let him reach out his strong arms and 
lift me over her body. He held me, dumb with 
terror, for her to fondle a moment. Then I was 
shut into the box and trundled off to the station. 

It was a dim and noisy place filled with bar- 
rels and boxes. There were men running 
about. Long trains came and went. I won- 
dered if every box held an unhappy little dog. 


HIS JOURNEY. 


243 


Jamie stayed by me until the last minute. He 
placed a basin of fresh water and some biscuits 
beside me. He spoke words of encouragement to 
me, and gave sharp orders to the man who seemed 
to have charge of the boxes. At last he reached 
his hand through the opening in my box and 
gave me a long, slow caress. 

''Ah, weel! I maun gae the noo,’' he said. 

I was left alone. 

My second outing had begun, but it was so 
different from the one good Jamie gave me first ! 

I will not dwell upon the days that followed. 
I do not know how many they were ; but as I 
think of them they seem to be many more than 
all those I had lived before added to those I 
have lived since. I may be mistaken about 
this; but if I am wrong about the number 
there surely can be no mistake about the un- 
happiness that was crowded into every one of 
them. 

At first I thought there were no dogs in the 
other boxes. I called to them over and over 
again, and no answer ever came from one of 
them. But I soon came to know better. I was 
certain that they had started alive, as I had, and 
that the loneliness had grieved them to death. 

Sometimes I felt quite sure it would be so 
with me. The more I thought of it the more 
certain I became that there was a little dead 
puppy in every one of those boxes. 

The long sea voyage was almost worse than 


244 


REX. 


death. At first I could not eat, I was so ill, 
and I could not sleep for mourning over all that 
I had lost. 

Since I have learned that my father crossed the 
sea only two weeks later it now seems surpris- 
ing to me that we could not have traveled in 
company. It was bitterly lonely with only people 
about. To be sure there were some horses on 
board ; but they were sick too, and were not in 
the mood to be friends. 

Some of the sailors were rough and swore at 
me when I cried. Sometimes they beat me 
when my despair was at its height and my 
howls were loudest. There is this thing unrea- 
sonable in men, that though they do not pretend 
to understand our language, giving us a kick or 
cuff for a cry that may mean pain or warning 
or protection, they are equally angry if we do 
not understand their slightest word of command 
to us. 

One of the sailors was kind in a rough way. 
He took me out of the box occasionally and let 
me run about over the tumbling, rolling floor of 
the great ship. 

Somehow I lost hope. I had heard of the 
mistress who awaited me, and during those first 
days I often wondered about her. Perhaps she 
looked like this or that one of the ladies who 
had come to the kennels. Perhaps her voice 
was as gentle as the gentlest among them, and the 
touch of her hand as tender. But after a while 


HIS JOURNEY. 


245 


it grew easy to believe that I should never reach 
her; that there would be no end to the journey, 
that I was lost, and the ship was lost, and that 
the dismal seasick life would go on until I 
should die, like the other puppies in the other 
boxes ! 

I grew to be very thin. The sailors spoke of 
it. The boards hurt my bones when I lay 
down. 

One day there came a halt. The deafening 
noise of the screw stopped. I had grown so 
used to it that when it ceased its grind I was 
filled with a new alarm. 

There was hurry and confusion. But it was 
not the end of my journey. My box was again 
tumbled on board a railway train. 

I was thirsty. There was no water in my 
cup. When I asked for some a tall man kicked 
my box without saying a word. 

Another night passed. 

In the morning a new and younger man came 
into my car. I told him how sick and tired and 
thirsty I was. He stooped down and looked at 
me. 

'' Helloa!’' he cried. ‘‘ What have we here? 
A genuine St. Bernard, as I am alive ! And all 
the way from Leeds of England, too!’' 

He filled my cup with water and gave me 
some food that he had brought in from a restau- 
rant. At the next station he asked the engineer 
to give him a couple of minutes while he let me 


246 


REX. 


out on the platform for a few steps. And he 
seemed so proud at having me in his care and 
made so much of me that I should have liked to 
go home with him and live. But instead of 
that he put my box out on a platform, said 
^‘Good-bye, old fellow,” and the train hurried 
him off. 

I howled dismally. 

A man stood near with a large book in his 
hand. He ordered the cartman to deliver me 
before attending to the other express stuff. 

‘ ‘ They’ve been expecting this pup for some 
days,” he said, ‘‘and Fm sure he looks as if 
he needed a welcome somewhere.” 

The cartman drove through the streets at a 
rousing pace, shaking and bouncing me as much 
as my narrow limits would admit. I did not 
like it, and said so. The jolly expressman only 
laughed and urged his horses to go faster. 

“ He’s surely alive, though I don’t think he’s 
much more than that,” he said to a gentleman 
and lady who came to the door of a house where 
he halted. 

He carried the box into the yard, unfastened 
the hasp, and would have lifted me out, but I 
growled and snapped so that he sprang back. 

“ He doesn’t forgive me for jolting him up,” 
he said. 

Then the lady ran in and brought out a basin 
of sweet milk and held it forward, calling me in 
a gentle, winning voice. 


HIS JOURNEY. 


247 


The thought suddenly came to me that this 
was the mistress I had journeyed so far to see, 
and about whom I had wondered so long. Her 
voice sounded sweeter than any I had ever heard, 
and the hand with which she smoothed my head 
was the gentlest in the world. I forgot that she 
was a stranger, and tried to get up and go to 
her, but my legs were weak and cramped. 

The gentleman lifted me out and set me be- 
side the basin, and, though I lapped the milk, it 
was the gentle woman’s voice and hand that 
made me care again to live. 

I wonder now how they could have accepted 
me — so dirty, cross, ill-mannered, and starving. 
In England I had been praised for my beauty 
and size ; but these two were touched by my 
misery. They fed, cleansed, warmed, and made 
me comfortable. 

My journey had come to an end. I do not 
like to travel. Some people do. Some dogs do, 
too. Mina, now, runs away, sometimes, and 
has to be shut up and scolded. I never ran 
away but once. I will tell you about it a little 
later on. 


248 


REX. 


III. 

HIS NEW HOME. 

I T is a pleasant home, this into which I came 
at the end of that dismal journey. 

There were four persons and one dog here 
already. I make the sixth one in the family. 

The first is Mr. Miller. His sister calls him 
John. He is a young clergyman, and he is fond 
of dogs. 

His sister, who is my mistress, is called Mrs. 
Grey by strangers and slight acquaintances, but 
she is called Mollie by him, and Mamma by the 
boy. 

For there is a boy — her boy; and though I 
had been told dreadful things about boys, and 
that they are to be shunned, I know that it is 
not so. This boy and all of his friends are really 
worth knowing. They make great pets of Mina 
and me. Besides this, the boy saved my life 
once. I will tell you about it after a little. 

Jack — that is his name — is a genuine boy. I 
often hear him spoken of as a little gentleman. 
But I don’t quite understand that term when it is 
applied to Jack. I never saw a gentleman som- 
ersault forward and backward as he does, nor 
stand on his head, nor walk on his hands with his 


HIS NEW HOME. 


249 


feet in the air. I never heard a gentleman shout 
at the top of his voice for the mere pleasure of 
shouting. Gentlemen are usually rather quiet 
and grave, and they don't carry their hands 
in their pockets quite all of the time, as he does. 

But it is possible that they call him a little 
gentleman because he is so gentle to her, my 
mistress, and because he never does a mean, 
unmanly thing to one of his playmates, and be- 
cause he does not use words that a gentleman 
should not use. 

When poor people are in trouble and come to 
see his uncle, the clergyman. Jack is very nice 
to them. I remember one funny old lady who 
thinks that she is own cousin to Patrick Henry. 
She carries herself very erect and holds her 
head high, as the relative of so great a man 
should do. She doesn’t come very often ; but 
the first time she came Mr. Miller was not in, 
and she had to wait for some time. Jack took 
a fresh magazine into the parlor, so that she 
could amuse herself, and he showed Mina 
and me to her, and told her all about us. He 
listened to what she had to say of Patrick Henry, 
and talked so pleasantly with her that he quite 
won her old heart. I more than half believe 
she was sorry when Mr. Miller came, because she 
didn’t seem to remember exactly what it was 
that she had come to say to him. Since then 
if she doesn’t happen to see Jack she always 
asks if the young gentleman ” is well. 

17 


250 


REX. 


- Still, for all that, Jack is a genuine boy. He 
wears knickerbockers and wide white collars 
and pretty neckties of soft bright ribbon. His 
shoes are not always brushed, and sometimes he 
makes noise enough for three or four when he 
runs or walks. He wears round hats, set on the 
back of his head, so as no^ to keep the sun off, 
and he is exceedingly proud when my mistress 
says that he is getting very, very brown. 

There is something about getting brown that 
pleases a boy. I think myself that Jack is hand- 
some, with the red showing through the brown 
on his cheeks, with his short, crisp hair all tum- 
bled, and his hands all hard inside from ball 
playing, and his legs all hard and sturdy with 
running and bicycle riding. Yes ; Jack is hand- 
some. He has her eyes and her smile. 

But he doesn’t belong to me ; he belongs to 
Mina, the other dog, and not to me. She quite 
worships him. She can tell his whistle as far as 
she can hear it, and that is very far, for he can 
whistle louder than any of the other boys, and 
she even knows the sounds of the sticks he holds 
between his fingers and claps sometimes when 
he comes from the private school. 

She knows just when it is time for that school 
to be out. No matter how sleepy she has been, 
she always stands at the door of her kennel or 
by the window of the house waiting when the 
time draws near for him to come. If he is a few 
minutes late she cries very softly ; for she does 


HIS NEW HOME. 


251 


not know when he goes away but that some- 
thing may happen to him so that she will never 
see him again. 

One day Mr. Miller took her with him when 
he had business in the block where Jack’s school 
is. While he was talking with the men Mina 
stole away and followed the scent of Jack’s foot- 
steps up to the school room door. A mischiev- 
ous boy who was almost always tardy chanced 
to go through the hall at that moment. He 
turned the knob softly, so that Mina could push 
the door open with her nose. Then he hid him- 
self to enjoy the fun. Jack stood at the black- 
board with a long stick in his hand. He was 
telling the teacher and a big class of boys all 
about some figures that he had made on the 
board. The door swung slowly back ; everyone 
except Jack had his face the other way, and did 
not notice. But Jack saw, and stood motion- 
less. He forgot the rest of the word he had be- 
gun to say, and he turned red up to the very 
roots of his curly hair. 

The teacher knew that something was wrong, 
but before he could look around Mina gave a 
great bound that took her over the heads of the 
boys on the nearest bench and landed her close 
beside Jack, in the very middle of the platform ! 

Talk about thunder out of a clear sky ! Why, 
it’s nothing like having a big dog drop from the 
ceiling ; and if the ceiling happens to cover a 
lot of wide-awake schoolboys, an ordinary thun- 


252 


REX. 


derstorm is not worthy of mention. Poor Jack 
tried to quiet his dog ; but for once she would 
not mind a word that he said. She jumped 
about and licked his face and barked and went 
quite wild with joy at finding him. 

The teacher was not cross at having the school 
disturbed. He did not see the mischievous face 
in the hall, and he remembered his own boy- 
hood and the dog who was his dearest playmate 
through all that sunny time. So he let them 
gather around Mina and pet her as much as they 
wished. Then he let Jack take her home, and 
excused him for the rest of the morning. 

So you see Jack had a quarter holiday, and 
Mina had more of Jack, and nobody was cross, 
and one dog was very happy. 

Mina herself is a large golden-fawn creature, 
with black-tipped nose and ears and great, clear 
brown eyes. Her hair is long and has a little 
wave in it, which makes her very beautiful, 
though it is not as silky as the coat of my 
mother. Her tail is long and plumy and of a deep 
creamy tint. She carries it low and swings it 
gently from side to side as she walks, which 
adds much to her graceful appearance. People 
often stand and watch her until she is out of 
sight. 

She was given to Jack by a Romish priest who 
used to know and love Jack's father. She is a 
Leonberg, and her father and mother came from 
the kennels of Baron Essig, of Germany. This 


HIS NEW HOME. 


253 


means that part of her blood is St. Bernard, like 
mine, while the rest is that of the wolf dog of 
the Pyrenees Mountains. 

She tells me that many of her family are 
owned by members of the royal families of Eu- 
rope. I can readily believe this, for 'Mina her- 
self would add dignity and beauty to a throne- 
room. 

But she tells me, also, that there is a jealous 
feeling growing up against her race in the 
minds of some narrow persons who rule the 
world of the aristocratic dog. She can see no 
brightness for future generations, and believes 
that the family will become extinct in no great 
length of time. I try to comfort her. But she 
is wise and far-sighted, and I can see that away 
down in her heart the belief has taken deep 
root. 

But this does not prevent her from being a most 
delightful companion. Indeed, she is a foster- 
mother to me. Never having had any puppies 
of her own, she pours upon me all the wealth of 
her motherly instinct. At the first we ate from 
the same dish ; but as she never would taste a 
morsel until my stomach was filled it often 
chanced that I was overfed, while there was 
almost nothing left for her. The boy and my 
mistress soon decided that we should have sep- 
arate dishes and our food properly apportioned. 

I wonder how she has always been so patient 
with me and so unselfish; for, of course, she 


254 


REX. 


could not receive so much attention after my 
coming, and when visitors came I was sometimes 
let in to see them while she had to stay in the 
kennel alone. But this did not make her cross 
to me ; she is always happy at seeing me petted. 

If Mina were what people call human I am 
quite sure that she would be spoken of as a most 
beautiful Christian character. 

My mistress seems to recognize this, for once, 
when some ladies were admiring me extrava- 
gantly, she turned to Mina and said, gently, 

“You dear, kind creature! Are you never 
jealous? ” 

Mina looked up at her with those great eyes 
which are as soft and tender sometimes as the 
eyes of a woman. She seemed to understand, 
for, coming up to me, as I stood surrounded by 
the ladies, she reached out her pretty pink 
tongue and caressed my head, wagging her long 
plumy tail very gently all the time. I am glad 
to say that my mistress threw her arm around 
Mina’s neck and laid her cheek against her in 
that pretty caressing way she often does with 
me. 

There is another person in the family. It is 
Kitty, the housemaid, who likes all of us so well 
that she rarely scolds, though we — Mina, the 
boy, and I — occasionally make marks on the 
kitchen floor when the walking is bad. 

But I must tell you more of my mistress than 
simply her name. I have left her until the last 


HIS NEW HOME. 255 

because it is not easy to describe the one you 
love best so that others can see how dear she is 
to you. So I will only ask you to think of her 
as bright and sunny and lovable — one to whom 
little children come feeling sure of a welcome, 
and one to whom the elderly people in her 
brother's church like to send a flower or any 
trifling remembrance. 

Something very sad has come into her life. 
Some one, whom she loves very dearly, has gone 
away into another country, called heaven. 

I have found this out by being alone with her. 
She never talks sadly to anyone else about it, least 
of all to the boy, whose life she makes very 
happy. No one would dream that she often 
sobs herself into quiet upon my shoulders. I 
have never once told her secret, though I know 
the name of the one who has gone away. 

I wonder why he doesn’t come back. If I 
could come so far for her sake why does he stay 
away so long? Heaven may be a very beautiful 
place, but if there were hundreds of cats there 
to chase up the trees, and great meat shops where 
a dog could go and order his own bones, I could 
never be happy away from her since knowing 
that she really belongs to me. 

Still, until this one who has gone away does 
come back I shall take care of her. She is my 
especial charge. I watch her day and night. 
My bed is spread just outside her door when 
she sleeps. 


256 


REX. 


Every morning, when Kitty comes in to set the 
library at rights and takes up my rug, I push 
her door open with my nose and go in, away 
around to the little lane at the back of the bed. 
There I sit down in the corner and lay my head 
on the pillow beside hers. She always welcomes 
me and talks to me for some minutes. 

Kitty has tried to keep me from doing this, 
and Mr. Miller, when he has gotten up early 
to write, has scolded me. But w^hen the time 
comes to go in and give her a morning greeting 
there is no one who can stop me. She taught 
me to do it by calling me at a certain time every 
morning when I first came. Sometimes now, 
when the others try to keep me away, she laughs 
and says that Rexie knows she can’t get on with- 
out her Alpine greeting. If she has been think- 
ing those sad thoughts my coming helps her to 
put them away and to come out with a smile 
ready for the boy. 

I have sometimes wondered who gave me to 
her. She thinks that it was her brother, but he 
says nothing, and I have my doubts. However, 
since it was impossible to remain always with 
Lady Beatrice and the charming, mischievous 
little Duchess of Leed§, I am only too glad to 
be here. 

When I first came, and was so thin and weak, 
and so homesick for the old kennels at Leeds 
and for the beautiful life in the country, when 
even poor Mina’s caresses made me unhappy. 


HIS NEW HOME. 


257 


because they served to remind me of the dear 
mother whom I had lost forever, my mistress 
used to lift me in her arms and hold me as if I 
were a sick child, and smooth my head until I 
ceased my moans and fell asleep. 

Some persons may sneer at this. But her 
kindness to me does not make her the less kind 
to others. The boy is perfectly sure of her in- 
terest in kites and balls and guns and sleds at 
any minute,* and besides she cannot endure to 
see any living thing unhappy. 

We almost always sit at twilight before the 
open fire. The boy, upon one broad arm of the 
chair, has one hand about her neck and smooths 
me with the other, while she tells him the 
stories of my brave ancestors that I have told to 
you. Mina lies at our feet and listens. Per- 
haps it is not good in me, but I like to have 
Mina hear those stories. 

At such times, while I was yet very young, 
how alert the good dog was in her care of us all ! 
Her delicate nostrils scented a visitor before the 
bell sounded, and her quick ear heard the step 
before it reached the porch. One night the 
curtains had not been drawn, and we four were 
enjoying our twilight hour when some one, who 
was passing by on the walk, must have caught 
sight of the fire-lighted picture and stopped to 
enjoy it. The footsteps grew slower and slower 
until they ceased altogether. 

Mina was angry at even so slight a thing. 


258 


REX. 


She flew toward the window and poured out a 
warning in mighty tones. I was aroused also, 
and sprang to my feet, although lying upon my 
mistress’s lap, and joined my voice to Mina’s. 

We not only caused the footsteps to beat a 
hasty retreat, but we nearly frightened Mollie 
and the boy to death. They said that it was 
pleasant to be taken care of, but that there could 
be too much of even so desirable a thing. 

We never sat down for our twilight visit again 
until we were quite sure that the curtains to- 
ward the street had been drawn. 


KITTY AND THE CAKES. 


259 


IV. 

KITTY AND THE CAKES. 

I WONDER if everybody likes fried cakes as 
well as I do. Cookies and patty cakes, jum- 
bles and drop cakes, macaroons and seed cakes, 
long, slender lady fingers and dumpy little nut 
cakes with walnut meats on the top — I can tell the 
taste of every one of them. But the ones that 
Kitty calls fried cakes '' are the best of all. 

They are twisted into funny shapes. I know 
how she does it when her fingers are all white 
with flour, for Fve watched her many a time 
before she drops them carefully into the kettle 
of hot fat. IFs while they are in the kettle that 
they get such a rich brown crust. What a de- 
licious little crumpling noise it makes in your 
teeth when you eat them ! I really feel sorry 
for any dog who doesn’t know about fried cakes. 
He has missed some of the very best things 
in life. 

I can always tell when Kitty is making them, 
and I go into the kitchen to have a little visit 
with her, for we are all very fond of Kitty. She 
breaks one up into bits on a clean paper and 
puts it in a chair for me. I take a good while 
to eat it, because she never gives me more than 


26 o 


REX. 


one. Too many sweets are no better for a dog 
than for a boy. 

Jack knows when Kitty makes them, too, and 
comes after some for Mina and himself. If the 
other boys are there he takes out a plateful. 
Kitty makes a good many, because we are all so 
fond of them, and she keeps them in a great jar 
which used to stand on the lowest shelf in the 
pantry. It doesn’t stand there now. I will tell 
you why. 

One Saturday Kitty fried a lot of fresh cakes. 
When they were cool she laid them carefully in 
the jar and set it away. The next morning the 
family had some with their coffee. Never hav- 
ing formed the habit of drinking coffee, I did 
not have any for my breakfast. After a little 
the bells began to ring, and everybody went off 
to church except Mina, who was in the kennel, 
and myself, who was in the house. They never 
leave us alone together on Sundays. Mr. Miller 
says we might take it into our heads to get up a 
service of our own that would have more noise 
than piety in it. 

I was not at all sleepy that morning. There 
was plenty of time to think about many things — 
about cats and the new dogs I had met, about 
the romps on the lawn and the shoe that I had 
hidden away where nobody could find it. I 
thought about dinner and wondered if they 
would give me a bone for dessert. 

Presently I remembered the fried cakes. After 


KITTY AND THE CAKES. 


261 


thinking about them for a little while I got up 
and went into the pantry. I did not go after 
them ; it was only the memory of their delicious 
smell that came into my mind and made me 
feel that it would be much pleasanter to stay in 
the room with them than to lie off in the library 
alone. 

There stood the jar. A clean white towel 
was folded and spread over the top and a pan 
was turned down upon it. How meek it looked, 
and how very proper! But there were cakes 
inside of it — delicious, crisp, vSweet cakes. They 
were not hidden so carefully away but that I 
could smell them. 

I began to wonder just how they looked in 
their clean, cool bed. 

It was easy enough to push the pan over with 
my nose. It slid down upon the shelf with a 
bang and tried to frighten me off; but noise 
doesn’t disturb a dog who has any kind of cour- 
age. Then I drew the towel off with my teeth 
and dropped it on the floor. Afterward I was 
careless and stepped on it. 

I peered over the edge of the jar down into 
its cool depths, where the cakes lay cuddled close 
together. How rich and brown they were ! 
And they were waiting to be eaten. That, and 
nothing else, was what they had been made for. 
They looked it as plainly as could be ; they 
smiled it with their twisted mouths, and they 
tickled my nose with wsuch a delicious odor 


262 


REX. 


that, without stopping to think, I took one in my 
teeth and swallowed it in short order. It was 
the most natural thing in the world for a dog 
to do. 

Another found its way into my mouth. How 
crisp they were, and how sweet! They grew 
better and better the more I ate. I really had 
not remembered just how good they were. 

After a little I thought of something else and 
turned to go out; but the door, which had 
opened readily enough for me to enter, had 
swung back again and would not open to let me 
go out. I worked at the knob with my teeth, 
but they only slipped off. I reached up my paw 
and pushed and crowded. Still the door would 
not open. 

I went back and ate some more cakes. Then 
I tried the door again. 

It is pleasant to be in a room with a lot of nice 
things to eat, but if you can’t get out after you 
have eaten all you want it is not so pleasant. I 
barked and whined. Then I barked again ; 
then I sat down and, fixing my eyes upon the 
ceiling, I drew my mouth up until it was nearly 
round, and with all the strength of my lungs I 
howled. 

You should have heard that howl! 

An answer came from the kennel. Mina 
knew that I was in trouble, and sent her sym- 
pathy. Every time I stopped to take breath 
the voice of Mina reached me. It was very 


KITTY AND THE CAKES. 


263 


encouraging to me, but it must have sounded 
strange to others. Pretty soon some one came 
running. It was Kitty. She had heard us away 
down the street and was all out of breath. She 
said that a lot of people were on the walk won- 
dering what the matter could be. The service 
in her church was over, and she had come to get 
dinner ready for the others when they came 
from Sunday school. 

I was very glad to see her, and showed it 
plainly. But she did not seem quite so well 
pleased at seeing me. She asked me what in 
^Hhe worruld’' I was doing there; and when 
she saw the trampled towel and the empty jar 
she looked at me severely and stamped her foot. 

‘'An’ it’s mesilf as ’ll tell the mistress! ” she 
said. 

I went back into the library. It had always 
been a very long time after Kitty’s coming before 
the others got home, but that day it was a very 
short time, and I did not run to meet them as 
usual. I remembered Kitty and the cakes. 

“Where’s Rex?” I heard my mistress say. 
“ I wonder what is the matter? ” 

I thumped my tail on the floor, but did not get 
up, for just at that moment Kitty made her ap- 
pearance. 

“Sure, an’ it’s matter enough,” she cried. 

‘ ‘ It’s himsilf that has et up all av the cakes that 
I fried yisterday. Out av the hull av thim he’s 
left only wan, an’ whether he left it fur manners, 


264 


REX. 


or because he couldn’t hold no more, it’s mesilf as 
can’t say. But it’s the truth I’m tellin’ ye. An’ 
he don’t deny it, ayther. Jist look at him, now ! ” 

They all looked — Jack, Mr. Miller, and my 
mistress. 

It was true. I could not deny it, so I turned 
my head away and gave one feeble little appeal- 
ing thump with my tail. 

Mr. Miller and Jack laughed outright, and the 
voice of my mistress sounded a little strangely 
when she said that she would attend to the mat- 
ter. But somehow I didn’t feel like turning my 
head to see if she were laughing too. 

After Kitty had gone she called me to her. I 
arose, with an air of uncertainty, and obeyed. 

She led me into the pantry and, bending 
over me, held my face up so that I had to 
look at her. Then she gave me a long and 
serious talking to. At least it seemed long, and 
when at the end of it she held out her hand to 
show that it. was all right I gave her my paw. 

This meant that I would never do anything of 
the kind again. And though Kitty has grown 
careless, and I have grown tall enough to see 
everything on the table, I have never broken my 
word and touched anything that is not given to 
me from some one’s hand or put into my clean 
white earthen bowl. Sometimes the butcher’s 
boy leaves the meat in the kitchen when I am 
there alone ; but I do not touch it, and I would 
punish any stray dog who came in after it. 


KITTY AND THE CAKES. 


265 


The best part of it all is that I am still as fond 
of fried cakes as ever. Everyone thought that I 
would have been sick of them. But I know now, 
better than ever before, just how very good they 
are. I have had enough at one time to be able 
to form an opinion. I never fail to smell them 
the minute they begin to fry, and I always make 
Kitty a little visit at about that time. 

18 


266 


REX. 


V. 

NEW FRIENDS. 

W E have jolly times — Mina, the boy, and 
I. There is another dog who comes to 
visit ns. He is big and black. His name is 
Bliss. He brings a boy with him whose name 
is Hal. Hal is a friend of our boy, and while 
they are not at all alike they think a good deal 
of each other. 

Jack, our boy, is tall for his age, and strongly 
built. Hal is short and round. He could roll 
down hill almost like a ball. Jack is quick in his 
motions and a swift runner, but Hal is slow, and 
it makes him turn very red and wipe his face 
when he tries to run with our Jack. 

He has a pony and a little cart, and often comes 
around to take Jack and me out for a drive. I 
sit in front of them and look out at the pony 
and at the people whom we meet. Sometimes I 
amuse everyone greatly by holding the reins in 
my mouth. It is not at all difficult to drive. By 
having the reins crossed in my teeth, as an Eng- 
lish gentleman does in his hand, I can readily turn 
the pony by simply turning my head. Jack gives 
me a sly little poke on the side that he wants 
the pony to turn. The people do not see this. 


NEW FRIENDS. 


267 


It is certainly very pleasant to go in the cart, 
but I would much rather run along with Bliss 
and Mina, they have such jolly times racing, 
jumping, and tumbling over each other. Jack 
says it would be too hard for me now, and that 
when I am older I shall be 
allowed to run. But it / ] 
seems as though anybody / 
could keep up with the / 
pony, he is so slow. Mina 
said once that a baby could 
run as fast as he 
can, and she started 
off on a funny little , a 
trot just like his. 

Everybody seems 
to like these two 
boys and their two j 
dogs and the pony 
and me. We create 

quite a sensation “ it is not at all difficult to 
when we go out on drive.” 

the avenue among 

the stylish carriages. The coachmen give us 
our share of the street, and the gentlemen who 
drive their own horses bow politely to us who are 
in the cart. Hal and Jack take off their hats. 
I only sit up very straight and look as dignified 
as possible. 

There is this one thing about riding in a cart 
that makes it endurable — nobody ever bows to 



268 


REX. 


Mina and Bliss, although they have such very 
fine times. And while I am not sure that they 
would bow to me if I were to go driving alone 
they surely look at me when they bow, as much 
if not more than they do at the boys. So what 
can I think but that they wish to recognize 
me too? Our lady friends often stop their car- 
riages to inquire about me and to say how much 
I have grown. 

The chief thing required of me seems to be 
growth. Everyone talks of it. I should be 
very tired of the subject if it did not seem to be 
something very fine. The reason why Jamie 
took my mother and me on my first outing was 
because Mr. Smith wanted me to grow; and 
the reason why we were brought back out of 
that pleasant life was because I had grown. 

Persons whom I have never seen before, and 
whom I do not care to see again, insist upon 
knowing my exact height at the shoulders and 
my exact length from “ tip to tip.’’ And if it 
has been told them only a little while before 
they are all the more eager to hear it again, so as 
to know just how much I have grown. Kennel 
men come on the railway to measure me, and 
newspaper men print things about me. 

Mina smiles knowingly at my grumbling, and 
says that it is the penalty of greatness! But 
Mina is somewhat of a wag — aside from her tail. 

It may be very fine, but it is a good deal of 
trouble. It is not as easy as it might be to 


NEW FRIENDS. 


269 


stand in just the right position to be measured. 
And as for being weighed, that is the most un- 
pleasant thing in my life, now that my journey 
has come to an end. 

Mr. Miller and Jack took me down to the 
grocery one day. They had me get up on a 
small platform and put my feet close together, 
while the grocer balanced a piece of iron on a 
long brass thing that went up and down if I 
moved the least bit. 

It took a good while to get that brass thing to 
remain quiet long enough for the grocer to find out 
my exact weight. The rest of them were patient, 
but I quite lost my temper before it was over. 
The grocer gave me a sweet cracker when they 
let me off the platform, and Mr. Miller wrote 
something in a little book that he carries with 
him. 

Every time I go to the grocery since then, 
whether with Mr. Miller or Mollie or Jack, I 
start for the little platform at the back of the 
store. I growl at it for a minute and then get 
up on it with my feet close together. The peo- 
ple in the grocery always laugh. But if I must 
be weighed it is better to be done with it at once. 

And, too, the grocer never forgets to give me 
one of those delicious sweet crackers. 

It is a secret, and you must not tell, but Mina 
confided to me one day that she is very much 
in love with Bliss. He is a Newfoundland of 


REX. 


270 

purest blood. Dogs of his family often save the 
lives of persons who would otherwise be drowned. 
Bliss has never saved any one's life yet ; but he 
isn’t to blame for that. If nobody ever needs to 
be saved how is a dog going to save him, I’d 
like to know? Mina is sure that it is only be- 
cause nobody has been thoughtful enough to 
fall into the water when he has been near. He 
has often sat for hours near a body of water 
waiting and longing to rescue some one. 

He comes to see Mina as often as he can. 

Once when he had not been over for several 
days she ran away and went alone to call upon 
him. It was very unladylike, and she was shut 
up to pay for it. But Bliss was just as glad to 
see her as if she had waited to be brought. 
When he and Hal accompanied her home he 
told her she could not come too often to please 
him. . 

The boys each have a bicycle. They are very 
good riders, and belong to the bicycle club. The 
young men are proud of the way they can ride, 
and call them the ‘‘ club bobies.” 

I like the pony and cart, but I do not like 
these two- wheeled things that go of themselves. 
Whenever Jack begins to polish up his wheel, 
and when he and Hal have on their dust-colored 
corduroy suits, I know that the good time com- 
ing is not for me. 

At such times Mina nearly goes wild. She is 



LONGING TO RESCUE SOME ONE. 



NEW FRIENDS. 


273 


as fleet as a deer, and when there is a long, 
swift run before her she is as restless as the 
wind. She jumps over Jack’s head when he 
stoops to make sure that the pedals are all right, 
and she breaks out into such glad, sharp barks 
that he can hardly hear himself think. 

Sometimes, when I cry and feel badly because 
I cannot follow the wheels, my mistress puts on 
her bonnet and gloves and takes me for a walk. 
One day, as we were going quietly along, a little 
colored boy across the way called out to another, 

“Hi! Jimmy, here comes the double- j’inted 
dog!” 

Then they both ran to look at me. 

They meant no disrespect, for my mistress 
laughed about it after we reached home. She 
said that it was because my feet and legs are un- 
usually large. But that is as it should be in a 
young St. Bernard. It indicates great size as he 
grows older. 

One thing, however, troubles me, I cannot 
put them down as daintily as Mina does hers. 
When she enters the parlor to be admired by 
guests one would think that she had been to 
dancing school all her life, while I go clump- 
ing along in a most ungainly fashion. This 
makes the guests laugh and does not add to my 
good nature. But when Mollie says, '‘Come 
here, you dear little Clumps!” I know that, 
whatever the others may think of my walk, it is 
all right. 


274 


REX. 


Because she calls me ''little’’ you must not 
get the idea that I am a small dog. When only 
a few months old I was as large as the Irish 
setter who lives two blocks away. She calls me 
little because I am young, and because I really 
am little when compared with what I shall be 
when of age. 

A St. Bernard is of age when he is four years 
old. 

Jack will not be of age until he is twenty-one. 
I am glad not to have to wait as long as Jack 
has. There is so much to be done before he is 
of age that he is glad to have a long time in 
which to do it. He must finish the private 
school. Then he must go to a military school, 
and march, and wear uniforms, and learn to 
carry himself very straight and to keep his 
hands out of his pockets! And, besides, he 
should be well into college before he is of age. 

Poor Jack ! he has a lot to do. 

But he is going to take Mina with him when 
he goes to the military school and to college. 
He says that no place shall have him that is too 
good to have Mina too. Mina holds her head 
very high when Jack talks in this way, and puts 
on airs over me. But Mollie says that I can 
graduate without going to college ; and so I 
smother my wrath. 

Anyway, I couldn’t go and leave her. Who 
would take care of her and of the house if Mina 
and I were both to go off after a college educa- 


NEW FRIENDS. 


275 


tion ? I would rather have one little pat from the 
hands that were tender with me after that long 
and dismal journey across the sea, than to go to 
the finest military schools in the country and 
learn to march after a dozen drums. 

No, I shall not leave her. Her heart will be 
broken at letting the boy go. I must stay to 
comfort and watch over her. 

I am already getting to be quite brave. Ev- 
eryone says that I am a perfect watchdog. A 
rag peddler came one day to the kitchen door. 
Mina, who was in the kennel, barked furiously. 
It was the kind of bark that means danger. 

I was asleep in one corner of the kitchen, but 
the noise gave me a sudden start. I sprang up 
and ran toward the door. The stove was in my 
way, so I crept under the oven and looked out at 
the man and barked and growled with all my 
might. 

He was not afraid of Mina, who was locked in 
the kennel, but he started back at sight of me. 
Kitty told him not to be afraid, for I was only a 
puppy. She also told me to stop my noise. I 
did not do it. 

'' A pup, is he, now,” said the man. Sure, 
an’ he’s too big fur me.” And though Kitty 
had a bag of rags that she wanted to sell to him 
for some pans he was afraid and would not stay 
to trade with her. 

When he had gone Kitty scolded me. She 
called me a little coward for staying under the 


276 


REX. 


oven, and said that I would never have thought 
of barking if Mina had not made such a fuss. 
She was quite put out about the matter. 

Mr. Miller came out to know what all the 
barking and growling and scolding was about. 
When Kitty told him he laughed heartily, and 
after coaxing me out from under the oven he 
petted me more than he has ever done before. 

‘'You should remember,’’ he said to Kitty, 
“ how very young the little fellow is.” 

said Kitty, very rudely, for she had 
not gotten over her pet, “ I’m certain he’s big 
enough. You should a jist seen the man’s eyes 
at sight av him ! An’ if he ain’t big himself his 
voice is big enough for a dozen, sure!” 

I never could see why Kitty made such a fuss 
that day. She would not have liked me to bite 
the poor man, I know, for she is kind-hearted. 
And that the barking and growling had its effect 
only shows that I can drive away tramps, of 
whom she is very much afraid. And she called 
me a coward just because I stayed under the stove 
while I barked ! But I could not have barked 
louder if I had not been under it. So what did 
she want, anyway ? 

Kitty is a good girl, but that day she was quite 
unreasonable. 


IN THE PANTRY AGAIN. 


277 


VI 


IN THE PANTRY AGAIN. 

NOT HER thing happened in the little 



room where the fried cakes are kept that 


may amuse you. I think so because a lady who 
writes for an editor in Boston asked my mistress 
if she might come to our house sometime and 
make a story out of it. I don’t think she ever 
came, so there will be no harm in telling about 
it myself. 

You see, there had been a mouse in the pan- 
try for some days. Kitty had tried in every way 
to get rid of him. She baited a new trap with 
such sweet-smelling cheese that I can’t see how 
any mouse with a nose on his face could have let 
it alone. But, morning after morning, the trap 
stood calm and undisturbed while cream was 
dipped into and icing was nibbled off from layer 
cakes. 

Kitty grew desperate. After promising to be 
very careful not to let Mina and me get a bit of 
it, she spread a slice of bread with thick yellow 
butter that had been mixed full of deadly poi- 
son. Then she cut it into pieces and laid them 
just where the cake and the cream had been. 

But mousie was proof against all temptation. 


2/8 


REX. 


He did not touch the bread and butter, but went 
straight into the tablecloths and chewed great 
holes in them and began to make a nest with the 
lint. This made still greater trouble. 

Nobody knew what to do. It looked as if the 
mouse were going to have his own way, until one 
night Jack was hungry and went in after a fried 
cake. 

I heard him say what he was going after, and 
went with him. 

He had a candle in his hand, and as we en- 
tered the door swung back, just as it did that 
other time when I went in alone. 

At that moment the mouse sprang off from the 
shelf. 

We both saw him. Jack gave a little shout, 
ril fix you, old fellow! he said, and he 
set down the candle to catch up a rolling-pin 
that lay there. Then he looked around with 
blood in his eyes ! 

The mouse was nowhere to be seen. He 
moved everything on every shelf he could reach 
— pans, jars, bottles, cans, plates under wire 
screens, covered basins, and bowls with plates 
over them — everything upon which he could lay 
his hands. 

Then he stood quite still and listened. But 
he could hear no little feet scampering over the 
floor and no rustling of the clean white papers 
on the shelf. 

He set the candle on the floor and got down 


IN THE PANTRY AGAIN. 


279 


Upon all fours and peered under the lowest 
shelves and poked the rolling-pin into the cor- 
ners. Nothing was to be found. 

He got up red and hot and disappointed. 

Rexie,’’ he said, because he was disappointed 
and didn’t know what else to do, Rexie, where 
is that mouse ? ” 

I looked at him an instant, then opened my 
mouth, and the mouse jumped out on the floor. 
But before it could get away I had shut my teeth 
upon it and dropped it dead at his feet. 

How they all laughed when Jack ran into the 
sitting room and told them about it! There 
were some callers in, but he really could not wait. 

Everyone wondered at my quickness and at 
my patience in holding the creature in my 
mouth. Jack looked at my tongue and made a 
great fuss because there was blood on it; but 
I did not mind it. It was rare sport, even bet- 
ter than eating the cake they gave me after Jack 
had gotten over his excitement enough to re- 
member what it was that took him into the 
pantry. 

The lessons my mother taught me during 
those sweet country days in Merrie England 
were not forgotten. I remembered the great 
barn and the granary with its piles of wheat 
and the mice that used to come nibbling, nib- 
bling day after day. And, too, I remembered 
how pleased the farmer always was at the little 
row of domestic game that he used to find at 


28 o 


REX. 


night in the great doorway, spread out very 
much as a hunter spreads out his ducks and par- 
tridges and hares. Yes, I remembered it all. 
Some lessons are not easily forgotten. 

Kitty should have called upon me to settle 
her troubles. 

She treats me with a great deal of respect now. 


WILD THOUGHTS. 


281 


VII. 

WILD THOUGHTS. 

I T snows to-day. My heart always beats high 
at sight of the snow. The downy flakes, as 
they come drifting through the air, are more 
than welcome. 

I spring at them and catch them in my teeth. 
I shake my rough coat and watch them fly off in 
a tiny snowstorm of my own making. 

The more thickly they fall the happier I am. 
When they quite fill the air, so that one can see 
only a short way before him, it is most exciting. 
When they pile themselves into drifts that are 
higher than my head I plunge into them with 
all my might and make a path for whoever cares 
to follow. 

My scent seems keenest then. I dig with all 
my strength for some favorite bone that they 
are trying to hide from me. 

People like to watch me at such times. When 
I come out triumphant, holding my head high, 
with the recovered treasure between my teeth, 
and all white with the snow that has tried in 
vain to vanquish me, they clap their hands and 
cry, 

Bravo! 

19 


282 


REX. 


And my mistress calls out, 

Rexie, dog, you are of royal blood; you are 
rightly named.” 

Many a gay frolic I have with the snow. 
Now we are old friends, now we are old ene- 
mies, engaged in deadly combat. 

But there come times when I am sorry to 
waste all this strength in simple play. It is 
pleasant to amuse and interest one's friends ; it 
is more than pleasant to have a wild frolic for 
one's own amusement; but this, alone, does 
not satisfy me. 

My heart goes out in a strange fashion. 
Somebody may be crying for help in my far-away 
Alpine home; somebody may need just such 
guidance as I have the power to give; some 
brave heart, to whom I could bring life and 
comfort, may be slowly chilling to death. Some- 
times, in the midst of my wildest excitement, 
such thoughts as these will cross my brain. 

I rise then upon my haunches and give forth 
a long, wild cry to bid him have good cheer and 
hold out a little longer, for help is coming. I 
will bring it to him. My face is serious, my 
manner is earnest, and my cry echoes through 
all the air. 

My mistress calls me to her when I am in this 
wild mood. Only her voice can control me 
then, and she says that I must not leave her. 

When her brother is away and Jack is asleep 
in his bed and the house is still, save some 


WILD THOUGHTS. 283 

Strange and ghostly sound, she has only to think 
of me as near her to feel safe. 

I have heard them tell how fearless she was 
when a child, and how one night a robber 
climbed into the house when she alone heard 
him. Bravely and silently she crept through 
the room he had entered, and reaching her 
father’s side awakened him to the danger. 

By doing this she saved the family treasures, 
a large sum of money that was in the house for 
that one night, and it is possible that she also 
saved her father’s life. But the nervous strain 
broke her childish spirit. Since then she has 
suffered much at night from fear. 

I have heard her say that my presence gives 
her such a sense of safety that she forgets to 
wonder whether the doors and windows are 
bolted. She would rather be guarded by me 
than by a soldier. Soldiers sometimes fall 
asleep and neglect their duty. But though she 
knows that I do not lie awake all the night she 
also knows that the slightest unusual sound 
arouses me. 

It is true that I sleep, but my heart wak- 
eth.” 


284 


REX. 


VIII. 

AN EXPECTED GUEST. 

I HAVE not added to my auto-bow-wow- 
ography in some time. 

I have been very much engaged in growing 
and in being weighed and measured. I am so 
heavy now that not even Mr. Miller would try 
to lift me. Mollie has not held me on her lap 
for a long time. Sometimes I lift my forepaws 
and rest them across her knees for a little while, 
but by sitting close to her I am tall enough to 
lean my head upon her lap. 

At twilight Jack still perches on the arm of 
the big chair. They both smooth my head and 
ears, and we are all very happy, except for one 
thing. Mina does not make the pretty picture 
that she used to make when lying on the rug 
at our feet. 

For Mina has gone away. 

I can't tell you how we miss her. She is the 
best of company and, though so gentle and af- 
fectionate, she is always ready for a frolic. 

The first time I ever saw her was just after 
reaching my new home. I had been fed and 
bathed, the tangles were combed out of my 
fiuffy puppy hair, and I was resting comfortably 



THE PRETTY PICTURE SHE USED TO MAKE. 


AN EXPECTED GUEST. 


287 


in the sunshine on the lawn, where a clean 
blanket had been spread for me. Suddenly 
there came a wild whoop. I opened my startled 
eyes upon a confused mass of boyish arms and 
doggish legs, upon a boy’s bright face and a dog’s 
kind face, while above them all a creamy plume 
was waving like a banner of peace. Jack made 
a great fuss over me. He took me up in his 
arms and carried me and laughed at my broad 
feet and funny face, with its dark cheeks and the 
white blaze” running up over my forehead. 

‘‘ Why, he’s marked the way that the monks 
like so well, isn’t he?” he cried. Then he petted 
me again. 

Mina and I liked each other at once. We 
touched noses and wagged tails in promise of 
friendship. 

After a little the family went in to dinner and 
left us two together. Mina sat down upon her 
haunches in a very dignified manner and began 
to entertain me as if I were a guest of high rank. 
She told me how much had been said about me 
— about my size, color, and name, and that I 
had been expected for several days. 

Suddenly she stopped. 

‘‘Wait until I speak to that cat,” she said. 

Then she flew like mad to the lower end of 
the lawn and rushed about at a great rate. She 
stood upon her hind feet and barked, and she 
sprang into the air, still barking. 

A white streak dropped from the tree above 


288 


REX. 


her into the next yard. Then she put her fore- 
paws on the top of the high fence and barked 
over it for a minute or two in baffled frenzy, 
after which she came back. Her eyes were big 
and shining. Great drops of perspiration dripped 
from the end of her long tongue as it trembled 
over her sharp, white teeth, and the hair still 
stood erect along her spine. 

I beg your pardon,'’ she panted, but when 
a cat calls upon me I always drop anything I 
may be doing and give my whole attention to 
her as long as she stays.” 

Do they usually stay long?” I asked. For 
it seemed to me that a long performance like the 
one I had just seen would be rather hard for 
the performer. It had tired me only to look at it. 

''Not often,” she answered, "unless they 
chance to take a seat in a tree that is not near 
the fence. If they do that I am pretty sure of 
a lengthy visit. I show my enjoyment by stay- 
ing very close to the tree. 

" Not long ago a very large and aristocratic 
yellow cat spent the entire afternoon and even- 
ing with me. She only went away after she 
had seen me locked in my kennel at night. 

' ' I bade her a polite good evening. But she 
hasn’t been around since. If she honors me 
with another call I’ll try to make it even more 
interesting.” 

She drew back her lips and smiled in blissful 
anticipation. 


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YOU innocent! 



AN EXPECTED GUEST. 


291 


‘'What is a cat?” I asked, for I had never 
lived in a house, and had not seen the cause of 
the recent commotion ; and, feeling very tired 
from my journey, had not been able to make 
myself into an exploring party. 

“ O, you innocent!” she cried, in a tone that 
made me feel very small and very, very young. 
“A cat, my pretty pup, is a thing that was 
created by a kind Providence especially for dogs 
to chase.” 

Then she eyed me enviously. “There is a 
great pleasure in store for you,” she said. 

I afterward found out the truthfulness of the 
last remark. 

Perhaps this little incident will help you to 
imagine some of “the things left out” of this 
story, and in that way you can partly under- 
stand how much I miss my dear dog friend. 

The reason of her going away was because a 
letter came one day, which told that somebody 
was coming to spend a month with us. The 
writer of the letter wanted to see more of Mollie. 
And he wanted to know if they were bringing 
his little nephew up properly. 

That very night Jack had his arms around 
Mina's neck a very long time, for a boy, and his 
voice was so choked that he could hardly talk to 
her. And I overheard him saying something 
about a “ dragon.” 

Now dragon is the worst name Jack can think 
of. He has been reading Greek Hero Stories 


292 


REX. 


lately, which accounts for it. You will remem- 
ber Jason and the dragon who guarded the 
golden fleece. 

I soon learned that the person who is coming 
to And out about Jack can’t endure dogs. He 
says that little ones are nuisances, and he is 
afraid of large ones. 

But, although he doesn’t like dogs, it is nec- 
essary that he should continue to like Jack. He 
has the money that should come to Jack by and 
by. And he can give it to somebody else if he 
chances to get vexed with Jack or Mollie. 

There was a family conference one evening, 
at which Mina and I were present. 

At first it was thought that both she and I 
must be sent away. After a little more talk it 
was decided that only Mina must go. They 
were afraid that my growth might be hindered ; 
and for the second time in my life some good 
really came out of this constant talk about my 
growth. 

Still, while I was so happy not to be sent 
away, I would have to be kept in the kennel. 
There could be no more long naps before the 
library Are, no going into the parlor to meet 
pleasant guests. 

He will insist that the dog is eating us out 
of house and home,” said Mr. Miller, ‘‘no matter 
how carefully we explain that thoroughbreds 
are really very light eaters.” 

“Yes,” Mollie said, with a half laugh; “and 


AN EXPECTED GUEST. 


293 


he’ll say that the poorer people are the more 
dogs they have. I wish he wouldn’t insist upon 
treating us as paupers. We haven’t much, I 
know. But we get along and are happy.” 

At this Jack sprang to his feet. 

“/ don’t want any of his old money! ” he 
cried. I don’t care if it will really belong to 
me when I am of age. I won’t take it! I can 
work and buy my own money, and no thanks to 
the dragon ! ” 

He looked fierce and handvSome when he said 
it. But Mr. Miller grew serious at once, and 
Mollie became really troubled. 

We are making too much of this,” she said, 
gently, as she took one of the little clinched fists 
in both of her hands. '' I am sorry, laddie, to 
have shown any impatience myself.” 

Jack shook his head at first, then he drew 
nearer to his mother and said: can bear it 

for myself, but I don’t want Mina to have to 
bear it for herself. She is so good, and she 
can’t understand — ” 

He broke down at that, and threw himself on 
the rug and cried upon Mina’s neck. 

She had been watching the faces with her 
great beautiful eyes, and the lines in her fore- 
head had shifted into hope or fear as each one 
spoke. But Jack in tears nearly broke her heart. 
She drew one of his hands, that had been thrown 
out upon the rug before her, gently forward with 
one paw and caressed it with her soft pink 


294 


REX. 


tongue. As she did so she gave one or two 
little moans and sighed deeply. 

Mollie knelt beside them, for everything that 
troubles Jack troubles Mollie too. 

Then Mr. Miller, who had been fidgeting 
about, came up to the little group. He had in 
his hand the tape that tells how tall I am. And 
he began to talk about the new harness he is 
going to have made for Mina, when she comes 
back again next spring. 

So the victory was won. Mina went off on 
the railway train — though I am glad to tell you 
that she was not put into a box. And the guest 
room was made ready for the expected visitor. 

Perhaps it tvas because all this trouble must 
be taken for one person who objects to dogs 
that made Mr. Miller, who is usually so kind 
and thoughtful, say such a savage thing to a 
disagreeable deacon whom we met one day 
when he and I were out for a walk. 

The morning was bright and clear. I was 
pattering along beside him, looking up every 
now and then when he gave a low whistle or 
spoke my name or told me how well I was learn- 
ing to follow. 

This man saw us coming. He stopped at some 
distance from us and waited while we came up 
to him. I knew by the smile upon Mr. Miller’s 
face that he expected him to say something 
pleasant about me. 

This is what he said ; 


AN EXPECTED GUEST. 295 

Shall I tell you what you ought to do with 
that dog? You should cut his tail off just behind 
kis ears! ” 

Mr. Miller answered quickly : 

' ' I don’t know why the dog should have his 
head cut off any more than you or I should. 
God made him. He is doing the very best he 
knows how to do, and that may be more than 
can be said of either of us.” 

The deacon looked a little put out by this 
answer, although it was dignified and quiet. 
But he was not to be silenced in that way. 

Dogs are useless,” he growled. 

* ‘ And I have known some men who are worse 
than useless,” said Mr. Miller. '‘Good morn- 
ing!” 

When our walk was over my kind friend ac- 
cused himself to Mollie of letting his temper get 
the better of him. But he said he was having 
such a pleasant time himself, and I was such 
good company, that he was not in the mood to 
have anyone question my right to live. 

It seems, from other things he told Mollie, 
that the deacon is a rich old man, who will not 
give a mouthful of food to a starving child any 
sooner than he will to a dog. That was why his 
words so vexed Mr. Miller. 

It is too bad that such an unpleasant thing 
should have happened. I shall always obey Mr. 
Miller at once. I shall take care of him, too, 
as well as of my mistress. Still, that does not 


296 REX. 

mend the matter. I am very much troubled, 
and Mina is not here to comfort me. 

Perhaps it would be a good thing to tell the 
Irish setter about the cross old deacon. He says 
that his master always shoots whenever he gives 
him the sign. There are some persons whom 
the setter does not like, and if he ever meets 
them when his master has his gun along he is 
going to ‘‘point'' them. 

The setter lives two blocks away. He is a 
very fine dog, and belongs to an aristocratic 
family in the dog world. 

He has had what is called “ regular training," 
and has told me all about it. He knows every 
word and motion and sign, which makes him 
very valuable. But it does not make him at all 
proud. It was too hard to learn, and he suffered 
too much in mind and body before he could 
make out what was wanted of him. 

I am glad that Mina and I did not need to be 
trained. Our people talk to us just as they do 
to each other, and we make up with our love and 
sympathy for anything that we do not under- 
stand. In this way we get on perfectly. 

Suppose I tell you a little instance. 

Well, one day I chanced to be alone in the 
library when a guest, who was here for a few 
days and who claimed to be a great trainer of 
dogs, entered the room. 

I confess to have never liked him ; so it was 
quite natural that I should watch his movements. 


AN EXPECTED GUEST. 297 

As he came near I arose and dropped the lower 
lids of my eyes until they showed the bright red 
line along each white ball. This red line is 
called the haw/’ and my mistress is very proud 
because mine can be plainly seen. It gives me 
such a savage look that I do not often have to 
growl at a tramp if he once looks into my eyes. 

This dog trainer stopped at once. Then he 
called out to me in a loud voice, 

“ Charge! ” 

The word had never been used by any person 
when speaking to me, and I knew of only two 
meanings that it could have. 

Sometimes my mistress sings in her gentle 
voice, 

“A charge to keep I have; ” 

and at other times, when her brother asks her 
how much the grocer or the merchant charges 
for something, she always names a sum of 
money. 

Well, this man with the big voice had no 
thoughts of a hymn in his mind, I knew, and 
he did not have much money. So he could not 
have paid me anything if I had “ charged ” him. 

Since I could not understand him there was 
nothing left but to do something that he could 
understand. So I drew my lips a little off from 
my teeth in order that he might see how long 
and fine they are growing. 

He again shouted, ‘ ‘ Charge ! ” and lifted his 
heavy boot. 

30 ' 


298 


REX. 


My mistress chanced to pass through the hall. 
She flew between us. 

‘'O, Mr. Harding!” she cried, as she knelt 
and threw her arm around my neck, ‘‘ Rex has 
never been regularly trained ; we always speak 
to him as if he were one of us. If we want him 
to lie down we simply say ‘ Lie down,’ and he 
does. Don’t you, Rex?” 

I answered by lying down very close to her. 
Then I flxed my eyes upon Mr. Harding and 
growled. 

‘‘ It is making a fool of the creature,” he mut- 
tered. He won’t sell for half the money that 
he would if I were to have the training of him 
for a couple of months.” 

I shuddered at the bare thought of being 
obliged to associate with that man for two whole 
months. 

‘‘ Rex is not for sale,” my mistress said, in a 
way that ended the conversation. 


A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS. 


299 


IX. 

A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS. 

D ays and weeks went by, but the expected 
visitor did not come. At first he was 
slightly ill ; later he grew worse and sent for my 
mistress. Mr. Miller went with her, which left 
Jack, Kitty, and me alone in the house. Jack 
had to go off to school every morning, and the 
days grew to be a good many times longer than 
they had been at any time since my life in 
America began. 

I soon cared very little about my food, and I 
cried a good deal. Poor Jack, who was home- 
sick enough himself, began to be troubled about 
me. 

One evening he and Hal got me up on the 
wide lounge and put pillows under my head and 
covered me with a blanket. They had a talk 
with Kitty, who shook her head and said some- 
thing very low about its being “a haythenish 
pity,” while Hal was sure that it would break 
him all up to see Rexie “kick the bucket.” 
And no wonder ; I have never kicked a bucket 
in my life. Ponies kick; dogs are too well 
bred. 

Still, this queer speech of Hal’s, together with 


300 


REX. 


Kitty's serious air, seemed to decide Jack. He 
put on his hat and coat and mittens and went 
out. He was gone only a short time, and 
when he came back there was some one with 
him. 

It was the doctor. I knew him well. He 
came to see Mollie once when she lay on the 
lounge with pillows and blankets just as I did. 
And I have been with her to ask him questions 
about the things that Jack does. She wants to 
be sure just how much ball playing and bicycle 
riding he ought to do. 

The doctor is a fine man. We all like him. 
He was very serious and kind toward Jack that 
evening ; he was kind to me also ; but there was 
a merry twinkle in his eyes when he felt of my 
pulse and when Jack opened my mouth to let 
him see my tongue. 

“ He is not very sick," he said, after a little. 

He is grieving for his mistress. When she 
returns he will be all right. In the meantime 
give him all the exercise you have time for. 

‘ ‘ Get him out early in the morning and play 
with him as long as you can before school. That 
will make him sleep while you are away. 

“ Suppose you get into my carriage now and 
go with me to make a few calls. I think we can 
coax him to follow. It will be good for both of 
you. If Rex gets tired we’ll make room for 
him inside." 

Just at that moment I heard footsteps on the 


A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS. 3OI 

porch. A key was turned in the latch and my 
mistress and Mr. Miller came running in. 

They were in great fright because the doctor’s 
carriage was before the house. They were 
afraid that Jack was ill, and they could hardly 
believe that it had been I, for at the first sound 
of her step I sprang from the lounge, scattering 
pillows and blanket on the floor, and bounded 
to meet her. I was almost wild with joy, and 
barked and jumped with all my might. 

They laughed at my sudden recovery, and 
Mr. Miller and Mollie thanked the doctor again 
and again for coming. They told him to be 
sure and add that call to the bill. 

The doctor answered that I was more human 
than a good many of his patients. He said, too, 
that the boy was as badly off as the St. Bernard, 
that the care and worry were too much for him. 

He is the kind of man who has the right to 
be a doctor. He can think of something outside 
of a medicine case. 

The winter passed. There were storms with- 
out, and indoors there were pleasant hours. 

The great white stretches faded from the fields 
beyond the town, and the air began to feel warm 
and moist. The birds came slowly back, and 
the buds on the maples in front of the house 
began to swell. 

The guest had not come. He was no longer 
expected. 


302 


REX. 


He was pleased with Mollie when she visited 
him, and he made her promise to bring Jack to 
see him during the next vacation. 

And yet Mina did not come back ! And the 
worst of it was this, that Mr. Miller said it might 
be well to leave her during the summer. 

Jack was in trouble. He talked to his mother 
about it. 

One evening as I lay before the wood fire it 
grew so hot as to be uncomfortable. I growled, 
but it continued to grow hotter. At last, driven 
by the heat, I got up and went to the back part 
of the room and lay down in a cool place under 
the window. But I growled all the way. 

At this Mollie said : 

‘‘ John, do you remember what a bad temper 
Rexie’s father had ? I am afraid it will show 
itself in Rex unless Mina is here to teach him 
gentleness.’'* They talked about it for some 
time, and I learned a good many things about 
my father. I will tell you one of them. 

One night, when he was shut in Mr. Emmet’s 
beautiful library at ‘‘ Fritz Villa,” near Albany, 
New York, he tore down all of the elegant hang- 


* My mistress has met Mr. Smith since this conversation in the 
library, who told her that the report of Rector, Sr’s, bad temper 
was a mistake. He said that some people like to say severe things 
of dogs, and especially to picture a large dog as an ugly one. Then, 
if the idea once gets about that the dog is cross, everything he does 
is set down as proof, in some way, of his evil disposition. Mr.' 
Smith was very fond of my father. He said that a reasonable person 
could not fail to get on with him. 



RECTOR SR., THE LARGEST DOG IN THE WORLD. 




A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS. 305 

ings. Mrs. Emmet was frightened and sent 
him, in charge of his keeper, back to New York, 
where her husband was. But Mr. Emmet was 
not angry. He said that a library was not the 
place in which to lock a dog, and that probably 
Rector, Sr., did not approve of the color and 
style of the curtains. He took my father into 
the dining room of the grand hotel with him and 
fed him from his own plate at dinner. 

Mr. Emmet is a man whom every dog likes. 
They go to him without being called, and they 
love to kiss his hands. He once said to a friend 
of Mollie's who tried to call her Danish hound 
away : 

Do not mind it. I like it, and he cannot 
help it. He knows how fond I am of dogs.’’ 

This conversation led back to me again, and 
then to Mina. It was settled that she should 
come home. 

How glad we all were to see her ! And how 
beautiful she looked ! I had not really known 
before how very attractive she was. 

When she went away I could run under her, 
for Mina is very tall and graceful. But the 
evening she came back I tried to do the same 
thing again, and was so big that I lifted her off 
her feet and carried her on my back. 

That made them all laugh. It surprised Mina 
greatly. She could hardly believe that I was 
really the puppy she had left. She looked at 
me from all sides, and she stepped back and 


3o6 


REX. 


watched me, with her head a little on one side 
and her ears lifted so that she could judge better. 

She came up and smelled of my nose and 
kissed me. But she was very greatly surprised 
and puzzled. She showed it as plainly as 
if she had spoken the words in good, clear 
English. 

It was not long after this that Mollie and I 
were alone upon the library porch. She was 
reading a book while I lay beside her. 

She reached down her hand and patted me oc- 
casionally, until she became so greatly interested 
in the book as to forget. I did not mind this 
until a sly little mongrel, who lived around the 
corner, came in sight. 

He saw me lying respectably on the porch, 
and began trying to coax me off for a play. He 
is a queer fellow. He has lost his tail somewhere, 
and nobody finds it for him. One of his ears 
stands up, while the other falls over his eye and 
flaps up and down in the most comical way when 
he runs. We almost never notice him. Kitty 
says he is a circus clown, and drives him away 
with the broom when he tries to be neighborly. 

But there was something very funny in his 
antics that afternoon. Before I knew it I had 
slipped quietly away from the low rocking-chair 
out through the side gate, which was open, and 
had joined the disreputable little fellow in a reg- 
ular romp. We rolled in the mud and got far- 
ther and farther away without thinking. 


A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS. 307 

Pretty soon I heard some one call, 

Rex !” 

But I had nearly caught him in our game, and 
it would not do to give up. He would laugh at 
me for the rest of his days. 

On I went. 

‘‘Rex!” I heard again a little later. I had 
just caught him, and was out of breath„ So I 
turned to go. 

It was my mistress who had called. I saw her 
stoop to pick up a dry little stick that was about 
as large as her smallest finger and about as long 
as her arm. 

She was vexed with me. It came into my 
mind in a moment that I was doing wrong. I 
remembered that on account of my size I must 
not be allowed to run about alone. Children and 
timid people might be terrified at meeting me. 
I dropped my body as low down as possible and 
ran by her as fast as I could toward home. 

She hit me with the little whip. It broke, and 
I did not feel the blow. 

But I felt the shame ! 

She had never done so before. The shame 
and trouble in my heart grew with every step of 
the way home. The library door was open. I 
ran, all covered with mud, through it and into 
her room, away around into the little lane at the 
side of the bed, and crept into the corner. 

She followed and came close to me. 

I made myself as small as possible. 


3o8 


REX. 


‘ ^ You are a bad dog, ” she said, ‘ ‘ I cannot trust 
you.’' 

She was not angry, she was sorry. 

I hung my head. Then I put it out of sight 
under my paws. 

She went back to her book ; but my shame 
was so great that I crept into the dark shadows 
under the bed. 

It is dreadful to suffer disgrace. 

She came back in about half an hour and called 
to me. She said that I had been punished enough. 

It was true. I had been punished enough ; but 
it was something inside of me that did it. 

She held out her hand coaxingly. I tried to 
go to her, but the bed was heavy. Whether it 
had really made me small to feel ashamed, and 
whether I grew larger after being forgiven, I do 
not know. But somehow, though I had been 
small enough to get under the bed, I was too 
large to get out. The more I struggled the more 
fixed I seemed. Kitty had to come in and help 
to take off the mattresses and lift the springs 
before I could get out. 

I didn’t tell Mina of this. It seemed better 
that she should not know of it. 

But not long afterward she and I had a rare 
bit of sport all by ourselves. 

Jack was at school. Mr. Miller and my mis- 
tress were out early looking after some sick peo- 
ple in the parish. Mina and I were on the lawn, 
with only Kitty about to look after us. 


A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS. 309 

A band of music began to play on another 
street. Kitty turned the key in the kitchen door 
and ran to the corner to see the circus go by. We 
followed her, and were as much interested as she 
was in watching the ponies with their pretty 
arched necks and spotted sides. We barked 
frantically at the clowns, who seemed to enjoy 
it. One of them threw us some chocolates. We 
growled at the monsters called elephants, who 
flapped their great ears and swung their long 
noses in the air as they walked. The lions were 
coming next. We scented danger. They were 
in a cage with their keeper, but we were not 
interested in lions, so we ran away as fast as our 
legs could carry us. 

When we reached home we found a man 
working with some wires on the top of a tall 
pole at the foot of our garden. We did not like 
his being there, and told him so ; but he kept on 
with his work. 

We sat down and watched him. 

Kitty soon came back and went into the kitchen. 

The man finished with the wires and began 
to climb down. We went very close to the foot 
of the pole and looked up at him. He did not 
come any farther. Indeed, he climbed back 
again to the top of the pole. Then he hallooed 
to Kitty to call off the dogs. 

She came out and tried to make us go into the 
kennel. We thought we knew more about taking 
care of the place than she did, and paid no atten- 


310 


REX. 


tion. Mina took the lead in this. She enjoyed 
it hugely. She winked slyly at me and said : 

Maybe it’s all right and maybe it isn't. At 
any rate, we’ll have the fun of it, and it’s even 
better than treeing a cat!” 

Then she drew up her lips and growled fero- 
ciously at the poor fellow, who was trying to make 
himself a trifle more comfortable. 

He grew quiet at once and looked steadily down 
at us for some minutes. Probably we were not 
very attractive when viewed from the top of a 
pole, for he swore at us. Then we barked, to 
show him that swearing is a most useless habit. 

He called out again to Kitty and asked how 
long it would be before the folks came back. But 
Kitty had lost her temper too, and because she 
could do nothing with us she turned upon him 
and said that they wouldn’t be back until noon, 
and that he had ‘ ‘ a foine mornin’ ahead av 
him.” 

This made him still angrier, and he said that 
two such dogs were a nuisance. And Kitty told 
him that he couldn’t git down any aisier, sure, 
if there was only wan sich dog!” 

Just at that moment, fortunately for us all, Mr. 
Miller came hurriedly up. He called out to the 
poor fellow to come down, for there was no dan- 
ger when one of the family was near. But the 
man replied that he would stay where he was all 
night if we weren’t locked in the kennel. 

After we went in he came down in a twin- 



“ it’s even better than treeing a cat, 


99 





A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS. 313 

kling*. Mr. Miller told him how sorry he was that 
the thing had happened, but that really we were 
not so much to blame. If he had waited until 
some one was in the house, and had come to the 
door first, and we had seen that it was all right, 
we would not have disturbed him. 

‘‘We have to sort of explain things to watch- 
dogs,’' he said, pleasantly. 

The unfortunate lineman was paid several 
times over for the loss of his half-hour’s work, 
and went away without any unkind feeling toward 
us. 

It was some days before Mina could think 
calmly of that little incident. At the slightest 
mention of it she had to go off and roll on the 
grass for some minutes before she could quiet 
herself. 

21 


3H 


REX. 


X. 

‘'A BRAVE lad!'’ 

I PROMISED to tell you how the boy once 
saved my life. It came about in this way : 
There is a gentleman named Young who comes 
to the city occasionally and stops for several days 
at the hotel, and calls upon my mistress. 

I never thought she cared for his attention, 
and it chanced that I was the unhappy cause of 
her telling him so. 

At the close of his call one morning he pro- 
posed taking me for a walk. 

My mistress did not like to let me go, but it 
was not easy to refuse, as there seemed to be no 
good reason for doing so. 

My handsome street collar was buckled on 
and my little silver chain was clasped into the 
ring. They were afraid I would not follow if he 
did not lead me. They were quite right. I 
would not have followed him. 

Mollie told him that I was very young — only 
nine months old, although so large — and she 
cautioned him not to go fast nor far. 

We started off. 

This man was very proud of me. He is one 
of those persons who like to have a fine dog near 


‘'A BRAVE lad! ” 


315 


them in order to attract attention to themselves, 
one of those who do not care for a dog for the 
dog’s sake, but for their own. You have seen 
such men. They lack affection. If anything 
injures the dog they cease to care for him. 
They do not make true friends. They make 
good husbands only as long as the wife is young 
and fair. My mistress is sweet and womanly, 
and this man admires her greatly. 

He is a fine walker, and soon forgot that he 
had promised not to go '‘fast nor far.” He 
went on and on at a rapid pace. 

It was one of those moist, warm mornings in 
spring when the air does not satisfy as you 
breathe it, and when the slightest effort tires 
one. My coat was very heavy. I began to 
grow hot and thirsty. 

He did not whistle nor speak to me so as to 
cheer me. He only walked straight on. I kept 
up as long as I could. When I began to lag a 
little he pulled the chain, thus tightening my 
collar and making it still harder for me. 

I struggled on a little farther, and then sank 
down in utter exhaustion. Everything grew 
dark before me. My breath came hard and 
foam gathered on my lips. 

People who were passing stopped to look. 

" The dog is mad 1 ” some one cried. 

" Shoot him 1 ” called out another voice. 

Just at this moment Jack, dear Jack, came 
running up on his way home from school. 


3i6 


REX. 


“Why, it’s our Rexie! ” he cried. 

Then he stooped and unbuckled my collar, 
which was still drawn tightly forward under my 
throat. 

I looked at him gratefully. 

“Stand back while I shoot him! ’’called out 
the same brutal voice that had spoken before. 

Jack straightened up. 

“ Any man who touches this dog will have to 
settle with me ! ” he said, as he squared himself 
in front of me. 

His courage made him forget his size. 

“ He’s mad ! ” they called out. “ Look at the 
froth on his lips! ” 

“ He isn’t mad! ” Jack shouted back. “The 
best kennel-books say that a mad dog never 
froths at the mouth, and no thoroughbred was 
ever known to go mad ! He is tired out, and his 
thick coat makes him hot.” 

A hackman who had driven up sprang from 
his box and stood beside Jack. He was a burly 
fellow, equal to half a dozen of the others. 

“ Let the dog alone! ” he said. “ When he 
gets rested I’ll take him home in my carriage.” 

The little crowd was sent away by a police- 
man, and a man who knows our family brought 
a great basin of cold water. I drank eagerly 
and was refreshed. Then I climbed into the 
carriage with Jack — it was a handsome one — 
and we were driven home in great style. 

My mistress thanked the driver for his kind- 



“ANY MAN WHO TOUCHES THIS DOG WILL HAVE TO 
SETTLE WITH ME ! ” 




“ A BRAVE LAD ! ” 


319 

ness. She wanted to pay him, but he would not 
let her. 

I did it for honor of the lad,’’ he said, when 
she urged him, ^‘and for love of a dog. It’s a 
fine dog you have, lady, and if s a brave lad ! ” 

Mr. Young came in and began to explain. 
But Jack had told his mother about the collar 
drawn tightly under my throat, and while his 
voice, that was so brave when the danger was 
on, grew thick after it was really over, had 
added : 

But, if you’ll believe it, that great big man 
never said one word when they threatened to shoot 
our Rexie! ” 

So the more the big man ” tried to explain 
the matter the less clear he made it. P'inally, 
thinking, as so many others do, that the price of 
a dog will make up for the loss of his love and 
protection, he said that he would have paid for 
me if I had been killed ! 

Mollie’s eyes flashed at this. She did not 
speak for a couple of minutes. Then she asked 
Jack to take me out on the lawn for a little. 
He did vSo, and that was the last we ever saw of 
Mr. Young; he has never been here since. 

Somehow I have never felt well since that 
troubled morning; something of the spring in 
my nature is gone. 

I watch my mistress when she goes to get her 
hat and gloves, and I am delighted to go with 
her ; but I tire easily. She sees it and is trou- 


320 


REX. 


bled. People tell her that when I become accus- 
tomed to the climate it will be all right with me. 

The bishop, whom we all love, has been here. 
He held services in Mr. Miller’s church. He 
was much interested in me and asked many 
questions. 

It was to show him how observant I am of 
everything done by my mistress that I went out 
for my last walk with her. Because I am yet 
very young he could hardly believe what they 
told him of my watchfulness over and obedience 
to her. 

I was lying near them as they talked; my 
eyes were closed. They thought me asleep. 

My mistress arose quietly. After going about 
the room, as if to arrange a curtain or to 
gather up the books and papers, she went out 
into the hall. I had followed every motion with 
my eyes. When she left the room I arose and 
went where I could see her. 

She took her hat from the hall tree and tied it 
on without seeming to notice that I was watch- 
ing. She put on her gloves and buttoned them ; 
still she did not look toward me, though I 
wagged my tail as fast as I could. I began to 
think that she had forgotten me. 

Mr. Miller spoke to me. 

I glanced at him, but turned again toward 
her. 

The bishop and another clergyman who was 
there each called my name. 


‘‘A BRAVE lad! ** 


321 


I did the same for them. 

They could not divert my attention from its 
one object. 

She went toward the outer door. Just as she 
reached it she turned to me and said, very 
softly, 

You may go.’' 

I flew forward and sprang about her in per- 
fect joy. 

She gave a smile of triumph to the others, 
who came out upon the porch to watch us off, 
and as we went she talked to me in a quiet 
voice that no one else could hear. She called 
me good and true. I could not ask for more. 

It was the very next day that a message came 
calling her to go to a near relative who was 
very ill. When she went away she begged them 
to be careful of me, for she did not think that 
I was well. Jack went with her; she could not 
leave him again. 

Mr. Miller and Kitty and dear, good Mina 
were all very kind to me ; but I grew more tired 
every day, and my head ached sadly. Poor 
Mina began to be ill too, which made it hard 
for both of us. 

The kind of doctor was called who takes care 
of animals and not of people. He said we had 
the distemper — a fever with influenza. He 
brought with him a big rough man who wore 
heavy gloves, and who seized first Mina and 
then me by the head, and wrenched our jaws 


322 


REX. 


open, while the doctor threw some vile stuff 
down our throats. 

Mina was patient. I was angered by such 
brutal treatment and would not swallow it ; they 
could not force me to. 

After a few days Mr. Miller called another 
veterinary surgeon, who treated me in the same 
rough fashion and with the same result. 

The two doctors shook their heads over me 
and said they had never seen so stubborn a crea- 
ture — that my will would cause my death. They 
had made me stubborn. I would have swallowed 
anything if it could have been offered to me by 
one pair of gentle hands. These men tried very 
hard, in their brutal way, to cure me; but I 
knew that they were afraid of me, and I de- 
spised them. I could have learned to love them. 
It is pleasanter to love than to hate. 

Mina grew better and began again to take 
care of me as if she were my mother ; but they 
said it was not good for her. They shut her 
away where I could not see her, and the only 
comfort was gone. 

I missed Jack very much — dear, brave Jack, 
my Jack and hers — Jack with his whistle like a 
steam engine and his breezy, noisy, rollicking 
ways. Hal and the other boys came often to see 
me, and, while they were always welcome, their 
coming only made me think oftener of Jack and 
of her. 

One day when I was very lonely Hal sat down 


“ A BRAVE lad! ” 323 

on the ground beside me and smoothed my ears 
and head for a long time. I tried to show him 
that his coming was a comfort, but I am afraid 
that he didn't quite understand, for every min- 
ute or two the great big tears fell down upon my 
face. 

Nobody must ever say anything against boys 
in my presence. With all my strength I would 
fight for Jack or Hal or for any of their friends. 

Mr. Miller was troubled because I did not get 
better. He was very good, but he felt sure that 
these men knew what should be done, and so he 
left me entirely in their care. One of them 
stayed about me nearly all of the time. I came 
to be very tired of him, but it was not even 
worth the while to growl. 

There was only one person in the whole great 
world whom I wanted, and it seemed as if she 
must come back. Sometimes I went into her 
room and lay down until the stillness drove me 
away. And one day, when very ill, I staggered 
in and got her hat from its peg on the hall tree — 
the pretty hat with the bright bow on one side, 
the one she wore when we went walking that 
last time — and I put it carefully upon the floor, 
and then lay down with my paws upon either 
side of it, and looked at it, and looked. 

Kitty came in and screamed out that I was 
tearing it up ; but when she would have taken it 
away I put all of my strength into a growl that 
sent her flying from the room. Afterward they 


324 


REX. 


could not find a single mark upon it, not a ribbon 
crumpled nor a feather bent. And Kitty herself 
wondered how I could have gotten it down so 
carefully. 

Ah, Kitty ! have you not learned that love can 
do difficult things? 

One night I leaned my aching head out of the 
kennel door and looked up to where the stars 
shone tenderly down, as if mindful of me. 

I remembered how, every morning, she kneels 

and, lifting her 
face upward, 
talks to some 
One who is away 
beyondhersight 
— some mighty 
One who can do 

I PUT IT CAREFULLY UPON THE FLOOR. what hc wills. 

She calls him 

Father, and she asks his help. When life has 
trouble she tells it to him, and seems to get com- 
fort in the telling. I thought of him then, and 
I wondered if he would not send her back if I 
cried aloud, so loudly in the still night that it 
could be heard even as high as where the stars 
were shining. 

I raised my voice, and there went into it all 
the pain I felt and all the loneliness that grieved 
me and all the love that made my heart ache to 
see her once more. 

The neighbors came running out. 



“ A BRAVE lad! ” 325 

“ The little St. Bernard is dying! ” they said. 
And, indeed, I almost thought it was so. 

Mr. Miller talked gently to me, but I would 
not stop until my strength was gone. 

After that I cried up to the stars every night, 
and some who heard it were wise and said : 

“ He is grieving for her! ” 

One night, as I wept most bitterly, I heard a 
carriage stop at the door and a hasty ringing 
of the bell and her voice as she ran through 
the house, unbolting doors in her haste to find 
me. 

I struggled to my feet and got outside the 
kennel door, but I did not run to meet her. My 
legs were heavy. I moved my tail slightly and 
looked up at her as she stooped to put her arm 
about my neck. But, before I could caress her 
hand or her hair, the man who watched me 
pulled her fiercely away. 

“ He is sick! He may bite you! ” he cried, 
in horror. 

The joy at seeing her, the effort to reach her, 
and the cruel words were too much. I fell on 
the ground at her feet. She smoothed my head 
and her tears fell down upon my face. 

“ He would never hurt me ! ” she cried. “ O, 
Rexie ! if I had known how ill you were I must 
have come sooner, and yet I could not. There 
was illness in my own family. Do you understand 
me, Rex ? I could not come until nowl ” 

I knew how it was. She saw it in my eyes. 


326 


REX. 


she heard it in my voice crying softly, she felt it 
in the way I laid my head against her gown. 

She would not have me left out of doors. I 
must be brought into a cool side room of the 
house and lie upon a fresh bed. I would soon 
be well, she said. 

The man who had been caring for me came 
forward. I growled at him and, rising, walked 
beside her into the house and lay down upon 
the blanket which she spread for me with her 
swift, kind hands. 

I did not moan so loudly any more. No one 
complained of me again, save once, when I slept 
and dreamed that she had not come. 

But she wakened me gently and gave me some 
cool, sweet milk, in which were a few drops of 
medicine. I lapped a little to please her and 
was comforted with the sound of her voice. 

Still, I knew then, as I know now, that it will 
do no good. She came too late. If she could 
have been here I would have taken anything 
from her hands. 

Another doctor has come, which makes the 
third. He is gentle and kind, but he cannot help 
me. She is beginning to fear it, for she wept 
to-day and said : 

‘ ‘ Poor little Rex, true heart ! I will see you 
again, if there are, as I believe, happy hunting 
grounds for such as you. 

‘‘You deserve a future if any living creature 
does. I will not so malign your Maker and mine 


' A BRAVE lad! ” 


327 


as to believe that so much love and faithfulness 
and patience and courage must go out like so 
much breath or like the smoke from a chimney.” 

So she knows that I have done as well as I 
knew how. The One who let her come to com- 
fort me once more knows that I have been faith- 
ful to her as she is faithful to him. 

Because he* is good and kind and mighty he 
may let me be near her again in some pleasant 
land where even such pain as this will be for- 
gotten, and where she will also find that other 
one, for whom she has so often wept upon my 
shoulders. Perhaps it will be that way. I must 
think that it will. 

There is no more to tell. 























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